Searching for Lloyd Dobler

As a woman of a certain age—44 to be exact—I have found a lot of other ladies who share the same nostalgic feelings toward movies of our formative years. The 1989 film, “Say Anything,” celebrating its 30th birthday this year, is no exception. Recently, I was faced with choosing between attending a screening of the movie—followed by a speaking engagement with star John Cusack—or seeing one of my favorite bands ever, Sleater-Kinney. Both events are happening the same night and the choice was tough. It may simply be a testimony to my aging body, but “Say Anything” won out in the end, in part because I’ve seen Sleater-Kinney twice and in part because I’m in love with John Cusack. Well, really, like so many other women my age, I’m in love with Lloyd Dobler.

I am very well aware it is silly to love a fictional character. However, Lloyd embodies so many attractive qualities it’s tough not to notice and appreciate them. Viewing this movie as an impressionable teen-age girl who’s learning what love could and should look like, it’s easy to form some solid opinions of what constitutes a good man—even if those opinions are based on fantasy. Just because Lloyd Dobler doesn’t really exist, doesn’t mean we can’t learn from the qualities that make him so damn attractive.

There’s no question Lloyd’s character is more developed and complex than many of the one-dimensional male leads in standard John Hughes staples, like Jake in “Sixteen Candles” and Blane in “Pretty in Pink.” These rich, pretty boys are simply eye candy—a prize to be won by Molly Ringwald’s protagonist. In contrast, Lloyd is defined by his relationships with others throughout the movie. His relationship with his sister—a single mother struggling to raise her son while working through resentment toward her ex—along with his relationship to his young nephew—who is missing a male role model in the absence of his father—demonstrate his deep love for his family. More notably, Lloyd’s relationships with his friends, most of whom are female, speak volumes to his character.

Throughout the movie, Lloyd seeks advice from Corey, D.C. and Rebecca regarding his relationship with Diane and their subsequent break-up. He stands up for Corey when Joe, her ex, confronts her at a party and tries to mess with her head. His friends view Lloyd as more than a typical guy and though they have some initial misgivings, come to the conclusion that a girl like Diane Court could indeed fall for a guy like Lloyd. At one point, post break-up, Lloyd begins to have doubts about his female friends’ advice and decides to seek out the male perspective. This thought leads to the hilarious scene in the parking lot of the Gas ‘n’ Sip with Joe and his dude friends. After describing his break-up with Diane and listening to their advice, Lloyd asks the seminal question, “If you guys know so much about women, how come you're here at like the Gas 'n' sip on a Saturday night completely alone, drinking beers, no women anywhere?” He is met with a long silence. Joe finally responds with an enthusiastic, “By choice, man!,” to which another guy quickly echos, “Yeah man, conscious choice.” Llloyd quickly realizes seeking out the male perspective was a mistake.

Some have criticized Lloyd’s post-break-up grand gesture iconic boombox scene behavior as feeling stalkerish. I disagree with this overall sentiment, as it’s pretty obvious Diane is in love with him and welcomes his attention. Lloyd is not afraid to be his own person and show his own vulnerabilities. He’s honest, kind, funny and calls people out on their bullshit. What some might see as a lack of ambition, I see as possessing incredible self-awareness and brutal honesty with himself and the world he lives in. He also has such a charming way with words. While discussing his future with his high school counselor, Lloyd reflects, “How many people really know what they want though? I mean, a lot of them think that they have to know, right? But inside, they don't really know, so, I don't know. But I know that I don't know.” Add to this his excellent taste in music, and you have everything you need for the perfect boyfriend.

Despite “Say Anything,” providing a blueprint for said perfect boyfriend, when I look back on my own experience as a young woman, I have to admit I wasted way too much time and energy pining for completely worthless guys who were so far from the Lloyd Dobler ideal it’s embarrassing. I wish I could say it was just in high school, but sadly, this pattern of behavior followed me well into college. One of my biggest regrets in life will be the countless hours and diary pages I dedicated to these guys who were truly not worth my time. I wish I had the confidence I have now as a zero-fucks to give forty-something woman back when I was in my twenties. I wish I could go back to the night I was “asleep” on the couch in the living room of the guy I was so infatuated with and overheard him explain to his roommate that I was “undateable.” If I could go back as the woman I am today, I would tell him exactly where to go. I would let him know how undeserving he was of our drunken make-out sessions, let alone my complete and undying adoration. Sure, he may have had good taste in music, he may have occasionally worn a trench coat and he may even have possessed the quick wit of Lloyd Dobler, but he was certainly lacking in kindness and heart. Granted, things may have turned out differently if I was more like Diane Court—a brain, “trapped in the body of a game-show hostess,” and hence totally dateable.

Honestly, I’m not bitter about my experiences in this realm. It’s really no surprise the guy I thought was my Lloyd Dobler was just another guy, and I don’t hold this against him. It’s ridiculous to think real people can measure up to fictional characters. We all have so much to learn about who we are and what we’re looking for when we’re in our 20’s. I’ve often thought about what knowledge and advice I would impart upon girls and young women regarding this time in their lives. Honestly, I think it’s something that can’t be passed on, it has to be lived. We learn best from our own mistakes, not the mistakes of others. That’s not to say I won’t continue to share my stories and insight to anybody who’ll listen. What can I say, I like to talk.

So much has changed since I was in my twenties. There are many more strong female role models out there and the ramifications of social media cannot be overlooked. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I feel like young women today are smarter, more confident and self-aware. In the meantime, I’m tasked with raising two boys in the midst of the MeToo movement and the Trump administration. I often joke that I set the bar low in my expectations as a parent, so as to not be too disappointed. So long as they’re not serial killers or republicans, I’ll be happy. But in all seriousness, I think it’s best to raise the bar just a tad bit higher. My expectations include kindness, respect, being in touch with emotions and feelings, being my little feminists, my little Lloyd Doblers. I know, I know . . . once again I'm comparing real people to a fictional character. I'll just try to keep in mind Corey’s wise words of advice to a struggling Lloyd, “The world is full of guys. Be a man. Don’t be a guy,” as I do my best to raise my boys to be decent humans.









x

The Life Changing Magic of Venting

Like much of the nation, my husband became obsessed with the Netflix show, “Tidying Up with Marie Kondo.” At the height of its popularity, we began applying the KonMari method to our small south Minneapolis home and nothing made him happier than getting rid of all those items that no longer sparked joy in his life. Somehow, he managed to not KonMari myself and the kids, because we’re still here. I was mostly on board with the purge because it all made him so damn happy. It’s not to say I didn’t appreciate the feeling our home took on since we decluttered. However, physical clutter has never bothered me much compared to the emotional and mental clutter that tends to muck up my psyche. Thus, I’m much more appreciative of the life changing magic of venting.

Unleash, discharge, let loose, release . . . even the synonyms for the word vent are therapeutic. I’m a member of a great Facebook mom group, that, like many Facebook mom groups serves a variety of functions. It’s a place where moms ask for advice and recommendations, give away baby items they no longer need, share hilarious memes and discuss issues like politics, women’s health, legal advice, social justice and whatever new Netflix series we need to binge. One of the best and most useful roles the group provides is a safe, judgement free space for venting about anything and everything.

The group is smaller than most mom groups out there, with just over 250 members and we make an effort to have real life meetups and events where members can hang out and get to know each other. Meeting in real life has created an incredibly comfortable and supportive online atmosphere and one hell of a space to be honest about mom life. There’s no need to use the old disclaimer, “I love my kid, but . . .” — because we all know we love our kids. However, just because we love them doesn’t mean they don’t drive us crazy when they’re acting like fucking assholes and we desperately need to find someone to commiserate with. 

Members of the mom group vent about everything – from partners and kids to jobs and politics. When we vent, we’re not necessarily seeking solutions to our problems, we’re just looking to put it out there into the universe, to get it out of our heads and our hearts. Along with providing a space to let it all out, we often find support and solidarity from members who get exactly where we’re coming from and have been in similar situations. 

Lessons for partners — listen. You don’t have to agree with what we’re saying. Even if you feel compelled to counter what we’re saying — DON’T. You may have good intentions, but trust me, sometimes we just want you to listen and to say you understand where we’re coming from. And if you don’t understand? Just lie. Please. You don’t even necessarily have to lie. Just nod and offer us you ear. 

And, unless you are specifically asked to offer up a solution, DO NOT offer up a solution. Your instincts may tell you that’s what you’re supposed to do — especially if you’re a man — you’re supposed to fix the problem. But chances are, we're not looking for a solution right then and there. There may not even be a solution. It’s all very simple — just shut up and let us vent. So often, we just need to be heard and seen. And if you provide us with this bit of support, we won’t need to vent about our partners on our Facebook mom group. 

Having a safe place to vent your frustrations in life may not be life changing or magical. But I do know one thing, it sparks a hell of a lot of joy.

Thank you OMG.

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The Bob Chronicles

During a recent discussion about baby names, a wise friend of mine recently said, “Robert is just a Bob with no friends.” His remark got a few chuckles and got me thinking about the Bob I have known the longest—my whole life in fact. That Bob is my father, Robert Joseph Jokinen, who is turning 80-years-old this year. I can safely say Bob Jokinen is one of the friendliest and kindest people I am lucky enough to know and love. I’d go so far as to say my dad is the epitome of a Bob.

Although it is unnatural for me to call him anything aside from dad, for the sake of this essay, I will henceforth refer to my father as Bob. Of course, I mean no disrespect.

Bob is rarely at a loss for words. It is nearly impossible to capture a photograph of him with his mouth closed, as he’s always in the midst of telling a story or a joke. Bob Jokinen was telling dad jokes long before dad jokes were a thing. As a kid I remember spending weekend afternoons at the Copper Country Mall walking around with my parents. The mall was literally known as, “the center of things,” back then as this was their actual motto. Sadly, these days it’s a modern day ghost-town mostly comprised of long empty stores. The days of the annual Cheerleading Challenge at center court and the old hot dog stand are long gone, though, if you try really hard you can still catch the subtle whiff of stale hot dogs. Back in its heyday, trying to walk through the mall with Bob at my side was tough, as he’d constantly be bumping into someone he knew and would have to stop and talk. I recall thinking he must know everybody in the Copper Country. And yes, of course I thought it was terribly embarrassing.

Bob is well known among family and friends for his stories, most of which I have heard multiple times over the years. Many go back to his days at Hancock High School in the late 1950’s. Bob would be the first to admit he was never a very serious student and judging by his stories, I imagine he was a bit of a greaser. He and his friends enjoyed fixing up hot rods and by the sound of it may have been involved in some rather reckless antics. This may explain his eternal love of the movie, “Back to the Future,” which I totally share with him.

Many of Bob’s stories are about his time in the Navy serving on the aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga and on Midway Island in the Pacific. He likes to talk about how bad the food was, so much so that he’s gone out of his way to avoid chicken most of his life. I can’t imagine food being so bad that it turns someone off from something as basic as chicken. Bob’s harrowing experience with Navy food may also explain why I completely failed to pull off my Navy Halloween costume idea in junior high when I found it impossible to squeeze into his old uniform. I was pretty skinny in junior high, but nowhere near Bob skinny.

Just as he was getting ready to be discharged from his stint in the Navy, the Cuban Missile Crisis happened and his service was extended. Thankfully, like his father—and lucky for us kids—Bob avoided wartime. After he was finally discharged from the Navy, Bob drove back home to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan from the Whidbey Island Naval Air Station in Washington state in two days, with nothing but two ham sandwiches and a six pack of Coke, in some old car without a heater. As he tells it, he was anxious to get back home to the place he loves most and his mother’s cooking. He was so determined to make it home he would stick his head out the window to stay awake. Incidentally, Bob likes to mention it was on this trip he heard the music of Barbra Streisand for the first time and has loved her voice ever since.

Back in Hancock and working at a gas station, Bob met his future wife, Betty LaRoche, of the Laurium LaRoche’s. Bob was always a car guy, with a special affinity for Corvettes—his first being the 1958 white Vette convertible he owned when he met Betty. Although the car was quite the babe magnet, Bob would ultimately sell it so he could marry said babe and the couple would settle down in the provincial little town of Dollar Bay, taking up residence in a small trailer home near the high school. My brother David was born in 1967 and was quickly followed by my sister Chris, in 1968. Six years later, in 1974, the couple finally got it right with the birth of their third and final child, Michele. By the time I was born, they had bought a house a few blocks away on Avenue G, smack dab in the middle of the block between the Baptist and the Lutheran church. Bob still likes to joke about how much that Corvette would be worth if Betty hadn’t “made him” sell it. I may be biased, but I think he made the right choice.

Bob's three loves - Betty, Lake Superior and his 1958 Corvette.

The Jokinen kids - Avenue G Dollar Bay, Michigan.

Bob spent a year working as a police officer for the Hancock Police Department. He wasn’t required to take any kind of proper police training—they just handed him a hat and a gun. Although he did not work as a police officer for long, the job would provide him with a wealth of stories. I’m not great at remembering them all, but I guarantee you most of them begin with a high speed chase on the Hancock Canal Road or involve exterminating some bothersome vermin out at the dump. The police force was great for stories, but Bob left to take a job as a linen service route driver, a job that offered more stability, regular hours and would support our family through his retirement. He delivered uniforms, towels, sheets, rugs, and other items to businesses across the region, spending his days on the road and carrying heavy loads. The job was physically demanding and he often had to deal with harsh U.P. winter weather and truck breakdowns. Like his time on the police force, Bob collected stories from the route and all the people he met while working. He would stick-up for his customers when the company would try to nickel and dime them and he had an incredible work ethic. It is worth noting that when Bob retired he was replaced by not one, but two young men.

As the youngest in our family, I often fell victim to Bob’s tall tales and teasing. While traveling back home from a family vacation in Florida, Bob went on and on about his plans to pick-up an old Navy buddy of his in L’Anse—a town about 30 miles from our home—and give him a ride up to Hancock. Bob said the man’s name was Mugsy Malone. Mugsy always wore a big fur coat and was not too fond of bathing regularly. Bob said Mugsy would be riding right next to me in the back seat of the car. As a very, very gullible 10-year-old, I was horrified and scared at this notion. I, of course, hoped he was joking, but sure enough, when we got to L’anse we pulled into the parking lot of an old motel and Bob went to meet his old friend Mugsy. Imagine my surprise and relief when he came back to the car with the cutest Alaskan Malamute puppy and the pure joy when I found out we were taking him home with us. As it turns out, Bob had met the puppy while working his route and was able to convince my mom that we should adopt him. I’m still not sure why he named the dog Mugsy Malone. 

Playing with Mugsy Malone, long past the puppy stage.

Bob, with the help of Betty, created a home environment that felt safe, warm and comforting—the kind of environment every kid deserves, but so many lack. When I close my eyes I can perfectly picture our ugly orange shag carpet, the dark wood paneling and the plastic sheeting that covered the picture window in the living room all winter long to keep the draft out. Bob’s Lazy Boy chair sat in one corner and I’d periodically search underneath it for the nickels, quarters and dimes that would inevitably fall out of his pockets when he sat in the fully reclined position. If you were so bold to sit in his chair and not move when he was ready to relax, you were guaranteed to get smooshed when he’d sit on your lap. Many evenings we’d watch the Red Wing hockey game together on the television, listening to the rantings of Hockey Night in Canada’s Don Cherry while eating popcorn out of a giant yellow Tupperware bowl. When I was younger and bedtime rolled around, I was told it was time for the blanket show — which was always such a disappointing production. As I grew older, Bob would simply say, “hit it, kiddo,” and I knew no matter how much I whined, it was time to head upstairs.

Bob’s love of classic cars would persist throughout my childhood and much to the chagrin of Betty, he’d often bring home old cars he’d find in the junkyard with the aim of restoring them to their former beauty. The hobby gave him an excuse to escape to the garage in the evenings and was great fun for us kids, as we loved riding in the cars when they were finished and making the neighbors jealous. My favorite of Bob’s classic cars—one he actually bought in good condition from a high school friend—was a 1966 white Ford Mustang convertible. If there is one parenting decision of Bob’s that I now question being a parent myself, is that he let me drive that car. Not just once or twice, but often. At night. With my friends. And after my older brother and sister had put many miles on it before me. I’ll always be grateful for those summer nights riding around with the top down while listening to the broadcast of the Tiger’s baseball game on the AM radio. It was a sad day when Bob sold the Mustang, my Mustang, to make some money to construct his dream home on Lake Superior. I understood and eventually forgave him. In true Bob fashion, he sold the Mustang to the person he thought would best take care of the car, and not the highest bidder. 

Myself and some neighborhood kids with one of Bob's works in progress.

The day Bob's 1966 Ford Mustang convertible was sold.

Bob’s love of Lake Superior is something he managed to instill in all of his children. He tells a story of a particular summer in his youth spent at a friend’s cabin on the big lake. Bob and his buddies never needed a match to rekindle their beach fire all summer long. For many years, our family went camping at McLain State Park on Lake Superior in an old pop-up camper. It was my job to fill up water bottles as we setup our camp site. I grumbled about the task at the time, but loved the whole state park camping experience and McLain’s in particular. The lake was beautiful and in the evenings we’d sit around a campfire roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. During the day there were always tons of kids to hang around with and places to explore. We’d walk to the concession stand at the breakers to get ice cream sandwiches, go swimming in the frigid water and walk out on the breakwall. 

The old camp - before it was torn down to make way for the new house.

In the mid-80’s, Bob inherited some money from an uncle who had no immediate family and my parents decided to take the plunge and buy some lakefront property on Lake Superior not far from McLain State Park. The property included a modest old cabin and a two-seater outhouse. The small, musty cabin sat precariously on the edge of a sandy cliff, and rickety stairs led down to a rocky beach. I was 12-years-old when they bought the place and we traded our state park camping permit for outings at the cabin—or “camp” as Yoopers call their homes away from home. The decor inside the camp included a privacy curtain to separate the bedroom from the kitchen, a long makeshift table consisting of saw horses and plywood, a wood stove, an old couch and a giant 8-track playing stereo console. The plan was to eventually build a home on the property and tear the camp down. As a gangly awkward kid, I’d spend hours pestering Bob on the beach while searching for agates, constantly asking him the age old question, “is this an agate?” over and over again. Bob always had the patience to tell me, “nope, keep looking kid.” Later, in high school, my friends and I had fun at the camp doing all the things that high school kids like to do—namely having a space away from the prying eyes of adults. As far as I know, Bob was okay with our antics, for the most part.

My wedding day in 2009 and Bob's last Corvette. The wedding was at the lake home.

As an adult, my appreciation and respect for Bob has only grown. I have met many people throughout my life who grew up with terrible parents. Listening to their heartbreaking stories certainly makes me grateful for my experience growing up and the fact that Bob wasn’t a terrible parent. But it’s more than just not being terrible. Bob’s the type of guy who would stop by Hancock Beach and bring me a Subway sandwich and a big gulp Coke during my lifeguarding shift without me asking. Bob’s the type of guy who would call and talk to his elderly mother on the phone every day and stop by to mow her grass in the summertime. Bob’s the type of guy who would automatically get up from his cozy chair and help my mother unload groceries from the car. Bob’s the type of guy who would go through a painful procedure to donate bone marrow to a complete stranger. Sure, he’s also the guy who might embarrass you just a little when he yells, “some of us have to work in the morning,” at the loud guys walking down the street of your little town at 2 a.m., but all in all, Bob is pretty damn fantastic. 

As the mother of two boys—Oskar, 8, and William, 3—I often worry about raising them to be kind and empathetic humans in a world that seems to have gone completely off the rails. I like to joke that I purposely set low expectations for them—no serial killers, no republicans—so I’m not disappointed. In my heart, I know I would not be disappointed if they grow up to be like their Grandpa Bob.

I’d like my boys to be a Bob, not a Robert.

Unfortunately, my first choice for a gift for Bob’s 80th birthday fell through. I couldn’t get his old celebrity crush—Loni Anderson from WKRP in Cincinnati—to jump out of a giant birthday cake. Sadly, she was unavailable due to recent hip replacement surgery. So instead, Bob will have to settle for this long, drawn out essay. Happy birthday dad. I love you. 

Grandpa Bob with his youngest grandchild, my son William - on the Lake Superior beach of course.

Mom Guilt

Cloth diapers vs. disposable. Breastfeeding vs. formula. Making your own organic baby food from the tears of unicorns vs. buying jar food. Surely if I made the wrong decision, I would ruin this tiny new person for life. I am no stranger to guilt, as I was, afterall, raised Catholic. Still, when I became a mother eight years ago, I was surprised to discover this thing called “mom guilt.” It did not take long before mom guilt became an ubiquitous part of every parenting decision I would face as a mom.

Parenting philosophies these days run the gamut from attachment parenting to free-range parenting. I’m certainly much closer to the free-range side of things. I’d go so far to say I practice DE-tachment parenting. As a SAHM, I completely relish time apart from my children, as this time rarely seems to exist. I am the mom at the Y who takes full advantage of the two-hours of childcare included in the membership — down to the very last second. I didn’t realize how much I liked being alone until I had children. Do I feel guilty about this realization? No, not really.

It took awhile, but eventually I stopped opening every conversation with the disclaimer, “I love my children, but . . .” Of course I love my children. However, that doesn’t mean I need to like them all the time, or need to spend every waking hour with them tending to their every need. My need to continue being some semblance of the woman I was before I had children is real and ultimately lead me to tell mom guilt where to go. This isn’t to say it’s 100% all the time, but for the most part, I’m done with mom guilt. If this makes me a terrible selfish person, so be it. Letting go of mom guilt has been great for my overall mental health and well-being. Being in my 40s and not giving a fuck about what others think also helps immensely.

Overcoming mom guilt helps me deal with all the things we can’t control as parents — which is really pretty much everything. As much as we hope and try to impart upon our children our best traits and guide them down the right path, life has a way of throwing wrenches into our best laid plans.

This past year, both of my sons — eight-year-old Oskar and three-year-old William — were diagnosed with a progressive kidney disease called Alport syndrome. Alport syndrome is a genetic condition passed on through the X-Chromosome and of course my boys get their X-Chromosomes from me. Passing along a genetic disease can lead to some serious mom guilt.

I never met my grandfather, but knew he died of kidney disease a few months before I was born. What exactly his kidney disease consisted of was never exactly known . . . well, at least not until my children genetically tested positive for Alport. My mom, aunt and I have mild symptoms of kidney disease — namely hematuria, or blood in the urine — but we never knew the cause per se. As it turns out, the symptoms of Alport syndrome are far less serious in women because we have two X-Chromosomes, lessening the effects of the disease. My mom and my aunt are now in their 70’s and are quite healthy.

Oskar was diagnosed first, following a kidney biopsy and subsequent genetic testing. Upon learning of his diagnosis and the future complications it might involve, I found myself rationalizing everything like a classically trained Minnesotan. Well . . . it could be so much worse, I thought. At least it’s not cancer. And, if you have to have a shitty organ, the kidneys are a good choice, considering you have two of them and transplants are pretty common and successful. I repeated these thoughts to a group of my closest friends and was instantly chided for my typical stoic nordic take on bad news and given permission to feel shitty about the whole situation. It wasn’t until these wonderful women pointed out it was okay for me to feel terrible about the news, that I allowed myself to break down and cry about the diagnosis.

I don’t know what the future holds for my boys. Alport syndrome often leads to hearing and vision problems in the teenage years and end stage kidney failure in young adulthood. I hold on to the fact that my grandfather lived to be 67-years-old, and that this was more than 40 years ago when medical treatments were far less advanced. It’s my hope this means a similar or better fate awaits my boys. I am encouraged by science and medical technology and that yes, if you’re going to have a shitty organ, the kidneys are the way to go.

Following Oskar’s diagnosis, we decided to also have William genetically tested. There was a 50/50 chance that he would test positive for Alport. When I got the news that indeed, William also got my shitty X-Chromosome, I was disheartened. As a mother, I’m disappointed I wouldn’t be able to tell Oskar to be nicer to his little brother — after all, you might need his kidney someday. I eventually realized I could simply tell Oskar to be kind to everybody he knows, since they might be a potential kidney donor. Nothing like using potential organ transplantation to keep your kid in line.

During an appointment with his kidney doctor, it was recommended Oskar receive comprehensive hearing and vision exams. I put off making the appointments for months and finally received a call from the optometrist's office we were referred to asking if we’d like to schedule an appointment. It was a literal wake-up call that I’m still in a state of denial about our situation. It’s difficult not to be, considering both boys are healthy in every way at the moment. Aside from Oskar’s daily dose of a blood pressure medicine, our lives have not changed a bit and there’s really no way to know how the disease will progress. Yet, in the back of my mind, the worry for what the future has in store for us always lingers.

Do I feel guilty for passing along a genetic disease to my children? Has mom guilt finally caught up to me? No, it hasn’t and I won’t let it. There is so much in life we cannot control and sometimes bad news is an exercise in letting go. We cannot control the future and as cliche as it sounds, life is really too short and precious to waste on worry and guilt, especially mom guilt, which is so often unwarranted. We will take this all one day at a time and hope for the best. And friends, please know if my boys are being especially nice to you, it’s not because they’re eyeing up your kidneys. Or maybe it is . . .

Work Bitch: an imaginary conversation with Britney Spears while running on a treadmill at the YMCA

You wanna, you wanna

Ummmm . . . wanna what?

You want a hot body? You want a Bugatti?

Hot body? Meh, I’d settle for fairly functional at this point in my life.

Bugatti? What the hell is a Bugatti? Had to Google that shit.

A fancy car . . . gotcha.

You want a Maserati? You better work bitch

Maserati. I’ve heard of that one. Seems a bit impractical to me. I’d be more than happy with a safe,
reliable vehicle with some room to cart the kids around and haul groceries. My Ford Edge seems to
fit the bill alright, though the gas mileage could be a bit better.

You want a Lamborghini? Sippin' martinis?

Once again, Lamborghini doesn’t seem all that practical for my lifestyle. It’s right up there with that
Maserati and that other one I’ve never heard of.

I do hope you refrain from sippin’ those martinis while driving said Lamborghini, as that seems quite
irresponsible. I seem to recall you had a substance abuse problem awhile back, so you might want
to keep that in check. Personally, I could definitely go for a good box of wine - preferably a red. I find
the quality of box wine is surprisingly pretty decent and a glass (or two) after I get the kids to bed is
such a great way to unwind.  

Look hot in a bikini? You better work bitch

Trust me, I could do all the work of a full on industrial manufacturing plant times 10 and I would still
NOT look hot in a bikini. Just not gonna happen . . . and I'm okay with that.

You wanna live fancy? Live in a big mansion?

Sure, I’ll admit I’d be happy to have a bigger house. My house is tiny and I live with a giant husband
and two boys who are going to grow up to be giant like my husband. A little more room would be great.
Love the idea of a finished basement where the kids could go nuts, and it’d be nice to have an actual
guest room. Don’t even get me started on the dream of a mud room and decent closet space. Now if
that’s living fancy, fuck yeah, I wanna live fancy!

Party in France?

I’ve been to France. It was alright. But if I’m going to cross the pond again, I think I’d prefer to hit
Iceland, Norway and Finland. Italy would be pretty fantastic, too. As for partying, as I mentioned
before, I’m partial to a few glasses of wine, and maybe get a bit drunk now and again. So let’s party
in Helsinki!

You better work bitch, you better work bitch

You better work bitch, you better work bitch

Now get to work bitch!

Now get to work bitch!

Oh, Jesus, I’m working bitch, trust me I’m working. Everyday is a struggle to keep my sanity as I
wrangle a toddler while trying to get a grumpy 8-year-old to the bus stop on time. Don’t get me started.

Bitch, I’m working, I’m working!