The Suburban Jungle

Almost every magazine has its version of a “How To Have (insert saucy adjective here)” sex list, most of which make me feel like I should keep an extinguisher by the bed, along with a bucket of cold water to douse on myself and my partner when we begin to spontaneously combust from sheer passion.  “How to Keep Your Love Life Hot, and Your Sex Life in Flames.”  “10 Ways to Reignite Your Marriage.”  “How To Turn Up the Heat In the Bedroom, Without Singeing the Sheets.”  (Oh, I like that last one)

I will actually disband the relationship myths propagated by magazines, and give it to you straight. The side effect of such truth could be the shockingly unsatisfying revelation that your unsatisfying sex life is just that… unsatisfying.  If you are faint of heart or an optimist, stop reading now.

When you have babies, sex is often not so hot… or often for that matter.

Unrealistic Tip:  Time your trysts around nap time. Snarky Response: There is nothing women like more, when trying to have an orgasm, than the sense of pressure and urgency that having time constraints puts on the experience.  Nighttime is better, IF you can work in a romp around heavy eyelids.  Little babies make for long days restless nights and disinterest

Do realize that once the kids are out of the crib, the question isn’t if we get caught, but rather when? You’re just counting the days, I mean lays, until you must explain why Daddy is wrestling with Mommy… naked. “Well you see, Mommy tripped and her clothes fell off, and Daddy was trying to help her up.  Oh, and he took off his clothes so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.”  So, please have a better story than that.

Writer with No Children Tip: “Set the mood.” You know candles, aromatic massage oils, and sexy lingerie.  Brutal Honesty Response: If there is no lingering gas odor in the room and you’re in an old t-shirt without any holes, work your dimmer switch and voila… ambiance.  Better yet, realize the TV is a beautiful source of ambient light. If you can get the volume to an audible level, you can work in sex without giving up Grays Anatomy. It’s called multi-tasking, something we moms are all too familiar with.

As for a massage, I’m lucky if I don’t get one of my kids’ left over Dorito corners embedded in my thigh.  The sexy part is when I ask my husband to flick it out and slide the remaining crumbs off my tush like sand paper.  Does that count as a massage? Well, arguably, it’s more like an exfoliation, but it’s undeniably hot.

Tip From a Writer Whose Kids are Not Involved in 500 Activities: A date night once a week. Reality Check Response: I like this one, because in theory it is legitimately a good idea.  It’s definitely worth trying every week, but unfortunately, it assumes that there will be a night each week when no one is sick or has an event, that there is a babysitter available, and neither of you are too tired or worn out to go to dinner  –A meal in which most your conversation will revolve around the kids.

Writer With more Than 24hrs in Her Day Tip: (My personal fave.) Don’t forget the foreplay. Multitasking Mom Response: Really?  As it is, I have to have sex while catching up on my Tivo, reading US Weekly, having a healthy protein snack, and repeating the words, “lettuce, milk, eggs” over and over until I can get to a pen.  Now I have to add something else to my repertoire?  We forgot foreplay a long time ago. Well, my husband didn’t, he calls it brushing his teeth… which I am thankful for.

“ Are You Out of Your Cotton Pickin’ Mind?” Tip –That’s right I said cotton pickin’ and I meant it!  Start Your Day With a Bang So, you’ve had a long day and the odds that you’re going to be up for a raucous romp, or even a guilt induced one, are slim.  Set your alarm an hour earlier and have an uninterrupted top-o-the-morning.  Bitchy Unsensored Response: First of all, what ambitious magazine writers think an hour is necessary?   Six minutes would do the trick and still, I’m not down with that idea. Do you know what I like to do before I wake up in the morning?   SLEEP!

Do yourself a favor, throw out those, “spice it up” manuals and top 10 lists.  Don’t be too concerned about the quantity of the sex you’re having.  You have to figure out what works for you. I recall a friend asking, “Do you ever wake up to your husband having sex with you?”  I remember thinking, “No, in my house, we call that rape.”  Now I’m thinking, “Hey, whatever works.”  If you can have a roll in the hay while hitting the hay, consider yourself a professional multi-tasker.

Question of the Day: What’s the best “Spice up Your Sex Life” tactic you’ve learned since you had children?  Please Comment and leave your twitter handle (I’ll be sure to follow:))

On Monday morning while half asleep and lying in bed, I reached for the remote, as I do every morning before my daughter wakes up  and begs to play “Barbies.”  I gently squeezed the “ON” button and received a wakeup call that I could not push “Snooze” on.  Your lifestyle is going down the toilet, well actually it said, You No Longer Have Direct TV Service.  Please Call Us, Deadbeat! Okay, there was no “deadbeat,” but all of the above was implied.  In a frenzy, I switched to my “Tivo List” looking for a prerecorded episode of Jersey Shore, to calm my nerves, but the Tivo service was also, no longer available. “WHY?” “Say it isn’t so.” and “What does this mean?” escaped my lips almost simultaneously.  Hello, the Bachelor narrows his bevy of possible flight attendants down to 12 ladies tonight, and what am I supposed to do while that’s happening… read?

Maybe this isn’t the first sign of my financial woes.  Has the proverbial alarm been buzzing and I’ve been sleeping through it?  Is it possible that being down to one credit card, that I randomly opened at Costco, was some kind of indicator that times are tough?  Is the credit card Roulette I play at check out not a real game?  You know, when you grab a card from your wallet at random and pray you don’t hear the dreaded “You’re Declined” which is followed by mental buzzer, while the contestant –me–  fishes through for another possible loser to swipe.

Now, in hindsight I feel almost silly.  I think there may have been other signals I missed.  Like when we cut out our annual vacations, or when we lost our savings in the market.  Darn it, have I just been phoning it in?  I’m not sure if those other signs are worth investigating, but the thought of missing the new Grey’s Anatomy/Private Practice crossover (that they haven’t stopped touting) could send anyone into a deep over-advertising induced depression.

In response to my wakeup call, I’ve done what any pop culture/ TV addict would do.  I pulled out my Costco American Express and called it in.  I know, it’s not tightening the purse strings, but I intend to skip grocery buying this week to make up for the loss.  Eating is overrated… especially after the holidays.  The truth is, I have a perfectly tasty cat just walking around the house.  Taunting me like a steak on wheels.  That’s ridiculous, why would I eat my cat when my dog is 40lbs heavier?   I may be poor, but I’m not stupid.

(If you haven’t read this piece, it’s sooo worth it.  If you have, and got a message on 3-10-10 to reread, I apologize.  I don’t know why that just went out!  Feel free to read License to Procreate, if you haven’t read it, and I will try and figure out the technical shit that baffles me everyday, in the mean time.)

This time of year I amuse myself by looking back at last year’s resolutions. Ones I made with the best intentions, like learning an instrument or a foreign language. Last Chanukah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this New Year, I would balk at a request to play “Stairway To Heaven,” saying something dismissive like… “Please, that’s so cliché, but why not?” or “Por favor, es muy cliché, pero porque no? Unfortunately, my guitar collects dust while my Spanish collects rust.

So for this year, I have made some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:

1. Nag More

For 10 years my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a friendly, “How many times do I have to tell you?” I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2011.

2. Gain Weight

I will add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I will start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I will stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it will make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I vow to eat everything a la mode, including ice cream.

3. Workout Less

This will actually take serious effort. The only thing harder would be to shower less. If I need the proverbial cup of sugar, I will drive to my neighbor’s garage and beep until she comes out and hands it to me. I will take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I will drop my membership to the gym and use the money I save to buy more carbs.

4. Forget an Old Language

This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I will let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I will watch endless episodes of Sponge Bob and Chowder. I will stop doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I will break all grammatical rules; I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I will wear around my neck.

5. Stay Out of Touch

This time of year, I am reminded of the many friends I have let time and space interfere with. I intend to further that distance. I will start by rejecting any new Facebook or social network requests. I will also attach a note that reads “I never liked you in the first place.” I will cuss out and hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.

6. Be Less Patient

I will be aggravated, exasperated, and ready to blow my stack at the slightest misstep. The next time my son wants help with his homework I’ll say, “That’s it! Clearly this whole Elementary Education thing is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell December by now, you never will…Now, go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she sits on the potty way too long.”

7. Hold Grudges

This year I will forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.

8. Stress More

I will lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my PDA, and then cry over what I’ve just done. I will empty our bank account on frivolous investments and watch it dwindle away. Oh, wait…that already happened. Well good, more for me to worry about.

9. Become Addicted to Something

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction; maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.

10. Gossip More

I vow to talk about everything you do in the New Year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or an addiction. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced, due to a torrid affair.

I will start a rumor phone tree and a blog called “WhatPeopleAreReallyUpTo.com.” I may even have a megaphone installed on my “Gossip Mobile,” so I can drive through town amplifying the skeletons in your closet to all within earshot. Oh, wait… I’ll just write about it in next week’s column.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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So, the holidays are upon us.   Christmas has just passed and visitors are abundant, but their welcome is wearing thin.  I know, we all look forward to this time of year, but often in the midst of it, we realize the heavy meals have expanded our waist lines and our relatives have stretched our patience.

In-laws can be the toughest during the holiday season.  I’m not talking about mine; they’re amazingly wonderful and never bothersome, NEVER.  Mine aren’t even in this season, but I have heard tales of other in-laws who cause stress and frustration.  The way they handle a turkey, as if it is not a breeding ground for salmonella, or the way they screw with the table settings that you took a painful amount of time arranging to look haphazard and shabby chic.  I know, my “friends” sound like a joy to be around over the holidays, right?  I am simply relaying their stories, I am in no way referring to specific incidences that may have happened in the past, which have caused me anxiety or to count to 10 by the medicine cabinet, while searching for Zanex .

Let’s face it, it’s harder to have tolerance for those who didn’t raise us: friends and non-immediate family included.   We have a certain forgivability factor for our blood relatives; they can get away with more and feel the wrath less.  We also tend to offend them less as they too have a forgivablity factor, towards us.  Thank goodness.

So, while you count the hours till your guests get on their merry way, I suggest heavy drinking.  Use the holiday traditions to mask your quick bout with alcoholism:  Manischewitz on Chanukah, egg nog on X-mas, and champagne on New Year’s.

Remind yourself that you’re probably getting on their nerves as well.  This is also not a problem I have, as I am always filled with an almost addictive amount of holiday cheer, but logic says:  If they’re annoying you, you’re most likely annoying them.  (Or did I read that on a fortune cookie?)  Well logic or Confucius says that.

Grandparents, especially in-laws, really aren’t there for you in the first place.  They’re there for your children.  You’re just an obstacle.  You and “Your Way” are hurdles to be tip-toed around, not jumped over.  They don’t agree with your techniques, your rules, and your methods of punishment — or lack thereof.   Though this is a point of un-verbalized contention between you and them, look at the positive.  They would love for you to get out of the house, so that they can do and say what they please without feeling like you’re critiquing and judging there every movement – which, by the way, you are.

Don’t over think this one!  Go out and let them babysit!!!  And while you’re out, drink heavily.

Disclaimer: No in-laws, parents, or guests were harmed in the writing of this article!

As many of  you know, I am addicted to the Twilight series.  This was one of my favorite articles to write.  Unfortunately, I can’t repost it on my site.  So please check it out and send it to your Twilight lovin’ friends!!! BABBLE READERS:  If you came from babble.com, check out my latest article, I Slept with Tiger Woods. OR more Twilight: I Vant to Bite Jour Neck, Blaaah & Twilight Obsession or Midlife Crisis.

New Moon, the second installment of the Twilight series, earned a record breaking $72.7 million at the box office on opening day. Were the moviegoers all screaming teenagers there to drool over Taylor Lautner’s new bulging biceps, or swoon over Robert Pattinson’s sexy pallor?  Nope. Many of these fans were moms.  ”Twi-moms,” as they — we — are often called, came out in droves to experience Bella’s love triangle between Edward, her vampire boyfriend and Jacob, her werewolf pal.  MORE

OMG, I have to tell you guys something.  I often turn to my iCarly diary with my darkest secrets, but this one is just too juicy.   Here goes…  I slept with Tiger Woods.  You guys are probably freaking out, as Tiger’s reputation has been sooo perfect up until now.   Let me be the first to tell you, he’s not the squeaky clean Jonas Brother, he pretends to be.

Our affair was rather recent.  I must confess, he was passed out when I met him.  Sadly, that’s not the first time I started an affair with an unconscious man.  The other time was when this guy was hit by a subway car and I went to visit him in the hospital.  His family showed up and took me for his fiancé.  I went along with it because I was lonely and it was the holidays.  Eventually, he woke up and I married his brother.  Oh wait, that wasn’t me.  DUH.

Anywho, with Tiger it was different.  He was admitted to the hospital (where I am a candy striper) after a rather harsh battle with a fire hydrant.  –See, it’s different already.  It appears he and his wife play late night golf and he took his car to search for a stray ball, when the confrontation occurred.  I can only imagine how far one of Tiger’s balls can fly (well, I don’t have to imagine anymore).  –That was a sex joke, in case you didn’t catch on, LOL.

As it turns out, it was lucky that his wife was caddying for him, as she was able to use his iron to pull him from the wreck and beat off the fire hydrant.   I didn’t even know fire hydrants could come to life, but I saw this movie about a car named Christine and she came to life.  So, I guess anything’s possible.

Tiger  even promised me a signed Fat Head of his best friend MJ.  I can’t believe he can get in touch with Michael Jackson, but after the stint with the fire hydrant, I can see Tiger’s special.  Other people can see it too.   He also had sex with my friend Luanne who mops the floors.   And then Gertie, who resides in the nursing home area.   Oh, and Becky who was in the pediatric unit to have her tonsils out.  I ran into him wandering around the Nursery.  He says looking at the babies calms him.  I get it, they’re so sweet and innocent.

I confronted him about all those other girls, but he said, “don’t worry honey, you’re my hole in one.”  He said if we do it enough I can be his “double bogey.”  I don’t know anything about the golf but the nicknames sure are cute.  Oh yeah, he made me swear I’d never tell… Shit.

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When I was a child, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade with my family was tradition. We would wake up bright and early, drag ourselves into the family room, rub our tired little eyes, and gather around the television. Mom would offer coffee and hot cocoa, depending on your age. We’d snuggle together, ready to critique the bands and cheer for our favorite floats. To us, the T-Day Parade was the official kick off of the holiday season. It was tradition, and it was spectacular. Read More…

One of my biggest pet peeves in Disney movies is the killing off of moms. It truly irks me that when I go to a “kid flick,” I have to worry that it will reinforce the innate fear that children have about confronting their parents’ mortality. Yes, I am aware that some Disney movies are based on fairytales which date back hundreds of years. Most of these stories involve the loss of the mother prior to the beginning of the story, hence the existence of the wicked stepmother. With this said, what about Disney movies that exterminate the moms with scenes that could give Steel Magnolias a run for its money? I haven’t even let my children see Disney tearjerker’s like  MORE…

-Dealing with a lost pet can be extremely daunting… even if it’s a ladybug.

I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son Jake’s 40-minute meltdown when his pet ladybug, “Lady,” flew away. We kidnapped this 4 year old (or 4 day old bug – whatever the spot things mean), at the top of Mount Aspen. Jake loved her, cared for her, nurtured her, taught her to ride a bike, and started a 529 plan in her name. About a quarter of the way down the mountain, Lady flew to the ceiling of our gondola and made a mad dash for freedom.

Jake jumped out of his seat and bounced towards the door. This caused the gondola to start swinging. According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging was strictly forbidden. “Jake, you can’t jump around. Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”

Jake continued searching, intensely focused on the whereabouts of Lady. “Hey, do you guys hear her? I can hear her. Do you hear her?” he said desperately, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use.

Though we tried, we could not decipher the cries of his lost ladybug through the cranking sound of our transport. “There she is!!!” Jake screamed with the delight of a boy finding his long lost puppy (or recently lost ladybug). Regardless, it was with total elation that he offered her a stick, which she eagerly climbed onto. A few more minutes of bonding, and she playfully climbed up his shirt. “She’s sooo happy,” Jake cooed.

His joy quickly turned to horror as Lady made yet another stab toward freedom. I caught her, only to have my daughter Ryan beg for a turn. I put her on Ryan’s hand as Jake frantically tried to woo her back to his stick. She crawled up Ryan’s arm, pulled out what appeared to be a miniscule pair of binoculars, and scoped out the opening in the window. She looked back at Jake, with a tear in her eye, and with one final heroic effort, vanished into the thin mountain air.

A guttural wail came from Jake’s mouth… “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET RYAN HOLD HER!!! I TOLD YOU! She loved the stick! She hated that spot on Ryan’s arm, and now look what you did! Sheeeeee’s gooonnne! I want Lady back.  I WANT LADY! She loved her stick, and she loved me! She wanted to live with me on her stick!”

Mark and I looked at each other, him losing it, and me wiping away a smile as not to diminish Jake’s loss. Calmly, I looked at Jake. “Honey, she’s a ladybug. I think she wanted to go free. That’s why she found the open window and flew out of it.”

“NOOOOOOO, she loved her stick!” Jake cried, tears uncontrollably streaming down his face. “I want my ladybug, I want my ladybug! I want her!”

Now both Mark and I are openly laughing. Well actually, I am laughing on the inside, which is causing me to cry.

“Jake, in the short time I was lucky enough to know Lady, I knew her to be a free spirit. Yes, she liked you, and your stick, but she’s not the type of bug to waste what might be half her life on a single stick. She wanted to explore and see as many sticks as possible.”

“NO, NO!!! She hated Ryan’s arm and it made her leave! I told you not to put her there!” Jake continued, as I officially lost it. While holding up the stick like a lighter, I started singing “Lady.” A song we later recalled was ironically sung by STYX. It went something like this: “Lady, LAY-EE-DAY Why’d you have to fly out the wi-i-i-in-dow?”

“Mommy STOP it! It’s not funny! I MISS LADY!” Jake wept, reverting to a grief-stricken state. Mark and I looked at each other in awe of this display of inconsolable, illogical, Oscar worthy, unceasing hysterics. “Jake…honey…baby, she lives on this mountain. She’ll find us at the bottom, I promise.”

“No-She-Won’t!” Jake screamed, stamping his foot on each syllable. “I promise she will,” I said, resolved to find another ladybug, or spend the rest of our trip trying.

He then paused, and answered with the irrefutable rationale of a six year old: “She won’t! She doesn’t even know which hotel we’re staying at!”

You know that stare? That annoyed stare that passersby, strangers and even family members give to let you know (what you already know) that you’ve completely lost control of your child? All moms know it. When my son was little he hated stores, any stores—Starbucks, Rite Aid, even my beloved Target. Maybe it was something about the shared air or the music that piped in from the ceiling, but he sensed the difference in atmosphere the second we entered. He screamed. He wailed. Sometimes fellow shoppers (likely other mothers) would help me out, give me the “go ahead” to cut them in line, or even unload my purchases onto the belt to speed me through. Most people just stared though, with that judgmental air of superiority. Their eyes were saying, “Tsk, tsk, you are a sucky parent! I could handle this sooo much better than you.” Some pairs of eyes simply stated “Shut that kid up!” What was I supposed to do? Stop getting groceries or, even more unthinkably, give up my non-fat, no-foam grande latte?

I remember being mortified after the first couple of episodes… Read more: http://parenting.ivillage.com/gs/gsbehavior/0,,g67prcgc,00.html#ixzz0W2OgU4UO

(Sorry, I am not allowed to reprint the article on my site.)

Don’t forget to check in on today’s Nickelodeon ParentsConnect “Me Time Challange” I don’t have time to: Go to the Doctor!

I have something to tell you; please don’t spread it around, as it’s somewhat of a secret.  I screamed “shut up” at my son today. “SHUT UP!” not “shush” or “sshhhhh” or even “ferme la bouche.”  No, “Shut Up.” I didn’t say it in a whisper, or even hiss it through clenched teeth.  I yelled it in a vein popping tone, and it felt sort of good, aside from the fear of having an aneurism.  I hate to admit it, but in the moment I actually enjoyed the shock value.

In my house, “shut up” is still the “S” word.  That and “stupid”…fine, it’s “shit” also (look, we’re not Amish).  “Shut up” is a phrase that I – a person who has managed to use“Shniekees” and “Gaylord Focker” in place of harsher expletives for the last 7 years – have never uttered to my children.

Had I witnessed you on the street saying – no, screaming – that to your child, I would have judged you with disdain.   I may have even considered calling child services on you.  Now, I’m the one with the scarlet letter.  I’m just a few more outbursts from a knock at the door.

I’m not going to tell you what my son did, but just know, he started it!  Fine, I’ll tell you.  He was yelling at me, telling me “No,” contradicting me, and being incredibly obnoxious all at once, and all at warp speed.  He never took a breath.  I didn’t know whether to punish or have him try out for the swim team.

The funny thing is, I just finished writing an article about the Spanking / IQ study, and here I am doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do… “ensuring my child will need hours of therapy.”  Way to go Jenny. Though I don’t believe in it, I would have been better off calmly putting him over my knee; at least I would have had more self-control.

The worst part of this whole confession inducing incident was the look on his face.  It was somewhere between “Uh-oh, you said a bad word!” and a lip biting, “Sniff, sniff.  You said that bad word to ME?”  As I’ve said before, I subscribe to the book of damage control parenting.  Doing as little damage as possible, and controlling the damage you’ve done.  This was one of those times I had to control the damage.   Somewhat in shock myself, I had to regroup and think of my options:   Apologize, use candy or some other bribe to gloss over it, or explain my actions.  I went the obvious route, and when he finished licking the Kit Kat residue off his fingers, I said I was sorry.

I’ll tell you, when my kids were little, I would have sworn this day would never come.  How could you look at those sweet chubby cheeks and imagine they could ever frustrate you so much?  Conversely, when I told a few of my friends the story, they were shocked at how long I’d held out.

Wait a minute, I think there’s some praise in there.  I amazed people with my nearly infinite patience.  I deserve a medal, not a scornful eye.  I take it all back… I am the best mom; it took me almost 8 years to tell my child to “shut up.” Wahoo!  See, if you practice patience (but not too much), and bottle up frustration like seltzer (that your kids can agitate until it pops), you too can astound people.   Then you can start a blog, and when you do terrible horrible things, you can seek contrition by telling hundreds, dare I say thousands, of people about them.

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Alright, please don’t take that as a sexual reference, it means exactly what it says.  My gecko is cleaner than yours… so, don’t challenge him to a clean competition, ‘cause he’ll win.

As it turns out living in Florida is like living in a remake of Jurassic Park, on a smaller scale.  Like the miniature Stonehenge, for all you Spinal Tap fans.  The bugs are the size of softballs and the reptile life runs rampant… through my house.  Anyone who has been to Florida knows that lizards cross the roads and sidewalks with the frequency of jay-walkers in NYC.

Up north, where I am originally from, you might be lucky enough to see a majestic deer or cute little baby bunnies bouncing through your yard, but here you see the kind of things that eat cute little baby bunnies.  What I am shocked at, is how used to it I have become.  So much so, that I showered with a gecko the other day.  Please, all you sickos, clearly there was no funny business, though I did loofah his back for him.  He was just hanging out on the wall and rather than go get the cup to catch and release him, I simply went about my normal showering process.  You know, lather, rinse, repeat.

It gave me a little chuckle, but what really made me laugh was when I told my son that evening about the shower scene and he said that he too showered with the same lizard an hour before.  He of course played with the little guy, which makes me question whether soap ever made it to any of my son’s parts at all.  Though I’m sure the gecko got a thorough cleaning and is certainly missing his tail.  I said, “We must have the cleanest gecko ever,” which actually sent us into hysterics.

When my husband got home, we relayed our tale to which he said, “Yeah I showered with him this morning.”  I don’t know what this says about my family.  Are we all too lazy to remove a lizard?  Are we a bit promiscuous, taking showers with any Tom, Dick, or Lizard that enters the stall?  or Have we become so accustomed to them, that we are part of their ecosystem? Like Jane Goodall and those chimps.

I do know that if you come to my house, you’ll see a shiny lizard that smells like grapefruit conditioner and prefers air drying over being briskly toweled off.  Well, Jake would know more about that.