Give Me My G-D Cookware Set Already

I don’t know about you, but I tend to get cranky in April. Not the botzo cranky I was back in October when we lost power for a week, but my regular Dad-from-The-Wonder-Years cranky.

I think it’s a combination of things.

First, right off the bat, the college basketball season ends and I go into a bit of withdrawal.

Then, the weather starts screwing with me—it’s 75 and sunny and I’m lying in a hammock one day, then 55 with a biting wind for the next 12. And, without fail, as soon as I plant my seedlings in the garden, there is a freeze warning.

And finally, there are taxes. Every year when I do our taxes, my blood boils over the deductions people get to take for procreating. Now, I know kids are expensive and that $3,700 only buys so many PlayStation games, but the dependent deduction is yet another reminder to us childfree folks that we are doing wrong by society, the federal and state government, and the American Council on Spawning.

So, if all that weren’t enough, this year April also included The Great Cookware Giveaway Fiasco.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my husband and I are not the kind of childfree couple that goes on resort vacations or eats out five nights a week. We don’t have the money for that sort of thing.

In fact, we keep close tabs on the amount we spend each week on that luxury known as groceries. We buy a lot of generic products—Dr. Bob’s instead of Dr Pepper, Fruit Rings instead of Fruit Loops—and if our bill says that we saved anything less than 33%, we consider the trip a failure and send ourselves to bed without supper.

So, a few weeks ago when my husband Bob (whose name is Billy) checked the bottom of the receipt and announced that we had saved 38%, we were pretty proud of ourselves. “In your face, Uncle Ben’s!” I said while Bob did a bodybuilder pose.

Then he noticed something even further down on the receipt—points that had been accumulated toward our new 8-piece cookware set.

“What the heck is this?” Bob asked. “How come we’ve never noticed this before?”

All we knew was that—just like that—we had 54 points toward the 300 that we needed. Score! We could definitely use a new 8-piece cookware set, considering we eat in just about every night. I started dreaming of a shiny new set of pots, pans and skillets, ones that didn’t release cancer-causing flakes into our lentil soup from their scraped-up bottoms.

When we got home, we looked up the promotion details online. Customers would receive one point for every $10 spent. The contest was scheduled to run from January 16 to May 16. So, in the course of about three months, we had unwittingly accumulated 54 points.

Which meant we had 246 to go.

Which meant we had to buy roughly $2,460 worth of groceries in the next 4 weeks.

We quickly realized that unless we invited the entire Jolie-Pitt clan (including Brad and Angelina) to stay with us for the next month, we were not going to reach this goal. The cookware would never be ours. We never had a chance.

And that, my friends, is how big-name grocery stores discriminate against the childfree.

As Lucy from Charlie Brown would say, “All I want is my fair share.” So if I can’t have the cookware, can I at least have a partial tax break? One for my mom, who calls me in a panic every time she wants to make an online purchase? I estimate her dependency to be at least the cost of a new 8-piece cookware set.

 

What “Friends with Benefits” Means to Parents

 

Image via Wikipedia

Sometimes I get the feeling that parents only want to be friends with other parents. Here’s why I say that: Parents only want to be friends with other parents.

The other day I was talking to Maria. She recently got back from a cruise with her husband and two young daughters. It wasn’t the best vacation she’s ever had, she admitted, “but we went to our friends’ house for dinner the night before the ship left. That was fun because they have kids” (emphasis added).

Not “because we hadn’t seen them in a few years.”

Not “because they always tell the most interesting stories.”

Not “because we were all laughing so hard I peed my pants.”

Because they have kids.

It seems the criteria for what qualifies as a good friend, a fun time, an hour well spent changes once people give birth. Number one on the list is “has kids.” As far as I can tell, this is so their kids have someone to play with while the adults interact—friends with benefits for the parent set, if you will.

I would not have been surprised if Maria had said, “We went to our friends’ house for dinner the night before the ship left. They insulted my mother, told me I smelled like old cheese and vomit, and forced us to eat pork butt. But it was fun because they had kids.”

Back in the day, my husband and I used to grab a meal with Maria and her husband on occasion. I understand that going out is a lot harder logistically now, so I have invited Maria and her brood over to our house for dinner a few times. She has declined.

I thought that cooking the food and taking care of clean-up—while also not asking them to shell out for a babysitter—was a pretty sweet deal. Apparently, I need to change my marketing strategy.

What’s a childfree gal to do (short of popping out a few playmates, of course)?

I’m thinking of getting a local business to cater a gourmet meal.

And having Ryan Gosling serve the food. Shirtless.

And giving away an iPad at the end of the night. Or perhaps a diaper genie.

Or maybe Ryan Gosling himself.

How do you like those benefits?

 

Sweet Child o’ Mine = Patience?

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I recently read an article about a woman who was pregnant with triplets. She also had a 4-year-old and a
2-year-old.

“I’ve always had a Type A personality,” she said. “I think this is God’s way of teaching me how to be patient.”

(Or perhaps it’s God’s way of telling you he doesn’t like you very much?)

This statement gave rise to two philosophical questions for me:

• Does having kids make a person more patient, or are patient people more likely to have kids?
• Are parents really more patient than nonparents, or do they just drink more?

Now, I am a firm believer in self-discovery, self-development, and all that crap. I’m just not sure it’s necessary to procreate in order to better yourself in this way. There are plenty of childfree opportunities to practice patience and restraint.

Take me, for example. I believe I am a pretty patient person. I say this because:

1. I have been to the DMV.
2. I have been stuck in a broken-down subway car with no air-conditioning in August.
3. I have been put on hold by my cable provider.
4. I have been told by my boss for the last four years that she is sure my promotion will go through this year (fingers crossed for 2012!).
5. I have stood in line at the post office on December 23.
6. I have been waiting 16 months for the new season of “Mad Men” to start.
7. I have driven on the Capital Beltway at rush hour.
8. I have waited a good 15 minutes for my 95-year-old grandfather to figure out the word he is look for is “dog.”
9. When I was 9, I shared a bathroom with my 14-year-old sister.
10. I have been contacted by a telemarketer.

In none of those instances did I flip anyone the bird, pull a Christian Bale, punch a wall, or lose my faculties.

And someday if I find myself honking at the car in front of me that doesn’t peel out the minute the light turns green, there are some patience rehab exercises I can do that don’t involve 3 a.m. feedings. I could become a customer service rep! Start rooting for the Cubs! Remodel my kitchen! No child necessary.

 

 

Childfree Friends: Where the Eff Are They?

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Last year, the Center for Work-Life Policy reported that 43% of college-educated women ages to 33 to 46 are childfree. When I read that, my heart swelled with hope. Harp music started playing, and angels sang “Rejoice! Rejoice!” It was as if someone had just told me unicorns were real.

And I was convinced that they would all move to my neighborhood and be able to go to the movies with me on a moment’s notice.

Now, a few months later, I’m wondering: Where the eff are they?

My husband and I live in a small town that is more subrural than suburban. We’ve been here for four years. I know basically three people in the area:

• Kim, a newlywed with babies on the brain. (You may remember Kim from an earlier post.)
• Sue, an empty-nester and kindergarten teacher who uses Facebook to share G-rated jokes that involve puns and talking fruit.
• Mary, an 87-year-old lifelong resident who remembers when the town was so small her graduating class was 13 people—and they were all related.

I enjoy hanging out with all of these women. They are all good people and interesting conversationalists. But “age and phase” differences sometimes crop up—like when Mary has to cancel our lunch plans because her arthritis is acting up.

It would be nice to have some friends who are my age and in my phase of life. I have no idea where to find such people. It seems like it is easy for parents to find other parents—the kid hanging onto the leg is usually a giveaway. But how do we childfree folks find each other?

Can we all just agree to wear an ankle bracelet with bells? Grocery shop on Tuesday nights? Dress left when we’re at a bar? Affix “DINK on Board” stickers to our car windows?

At this point, I think I am more likely to find a unicorn or a leprechaun or the Loch Ness Monster than a childfree woman in her late 30s.

Where do you find your childfree friends?

 

The Childfree Life: It Ain’t That Kind of Party

Some people have the perception that childfree folks live in a world of decadence.

They seem to think we are all skinny, energetic people who spend our Tuesday nights atop a roof deck with a pool, getting rowdy to bass-heavy music, throwing our hands up in the air like we just don’t care, and dropping it like it’s hot. In other words, we generally behave like college freshmen on their first spring break—but we wear designer swimsuits instead of bikinis from Old Navy, drink wine from a bottle instead of a box, and tip the bartender with diamonds and gold nuggets.

I can tell you firsthand that the childfree life ain’t that kind of party. At least not for me and my husband Bob (whose name is Billy).

For one thing, to be able to spend disposable income on resorts and expensive wine, you first must have disposable income. Bob and I have the pleasure of working in professions that we love but that do not produce a whole lot of disposable income.

So, we have learned to be frugal. In fact, we are quite proud of the ways we scrimp. Just how cheap are we? Let me count the ways …

• I still wear turtlenecks I bought in 1988, when I was in the eighth grade.
• “Going out to eat” means getting sandwiches at Subway—and splitting chips and a drink.
• Last year we bought our first-ever house at ages 35 and 37. We were the last of our friends—with and without kids—to do so, and roughly eight years behind my younger brother.
• We go to the movies about three times a year and always to a matinee. We never buy popcorn or soda at the theater.
• In the seven years we’ve been married, we’ve been on two vacations that required packing more than an overnight bag—one of which was our honeymoon.
• We have been known to high-five in aisle 6 of the grocery store when cans of cashews (or boxes of Cheez-Its or bags of spinach) are buy one get two free.
• I drive a sensible 2001 Toyota Camry. Bob drives a 1997 VW Golf with a tape deck and manual windows.
• We don’t own a boat or a timeshare.

I have to admit, though, that every few months we like to throw caution to the wind and drop some dough. At the end of every quarter, we put a capful of Kahlua in our hot chocolates or a splash of rum in our Cokes and write out a check to fund our IRAs. Eat your hearts out, you poolside partiers!

 

 

Guess What? Chicken Butt

I have a friend named Kim. She’s a new-ish friend. We met a couple years ago.

There are a lot of things I like about Kim: She’s enthusiastic, she’s positive, she’s easy to talk to, and she makes a mean chicken pot pie.

And occasionally we discover something in common that makes me feel like we are soul sisters. For example, we both put a fireproof box and Crest Whitestrips on our Christmas lists this year. What can I say? We know how to live.

Here’s where we differ: Kim is childfree for now, but she’s had her kids’ names picked out since junior high (Sophia and Jacob), and I equate having a child with being lost at sea for 18 years.

When we met, I had been married for five years and Kim was on the verge of getting engaged. She asked me about my breeding plans, and I told her quite plainly that I would have kids when monkeys fly out of my butt. She seemed fine with that.

But sometimes I get the feeling she isn’t.

Like the time I said to her, “I have some exciting news!”

“What?” she asked. The anticipation made her face resemble Mr. Bill’s.

“We found a house!”

And even though she knew that my husband and I had been looking for two and a half years for our first house and it was a big deal to us, her face kind of fell a bit before she said, “That’s great.” I thought at the time that she was expecting a pregnancy announcement, despite the fact monkeys had not flown out of my butt.

Then there was the time I said, “Guess what?”

“What?” she said excitedly.

“I’m running my first-ever 10K this weekend.”

Her words said, “That’s cool,” but her tone said, “That’s it?” Again, I thought she was expecting a pregnancy announcement.

At first I was bothered by this. Was I not clear about my plans? Did my milestones in life not measure up in her mind to the all-important milestone of having a baby?

Then I realized I could have some fun with her.

Whenever I see Kim these days, I like to throw in a “Guess what?” at some point. I like to see her face rise for a brief moment and then fall when I say something like “I had the best hamburger yesterday.”

Or “Paper towels are on sale at CVS.”

Or “I got my snow tires put on this week.”

Or my favorite: “I may already be a winner in the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes!” Hey, I may be. God knows I’m due.

 

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Last week I mentioned that even though I love my husband Bob (whose name is Billy) very much, I don’t want his face in my face 24/7. I like to have some me time once in a while.

Since we are a childfree couple, you’d think it would be easy for us to get some time apart. It’s not. With almost everyone we know busy reading bedtime stories and planning Chuck E. Cheese birthdays, it’s rare that either one of us can schedule a play date with friends. We end up doing a lot of things together that only one of us really wants to do. (The seminar on bicycle maintenance I could have skipped, and he says being in a Michaels arts and crafts store gives him heart palpitations.)

Sometimes, particularly at the end of, say, the Christmas holiday, I feel the need to get away from my other half. On these occasions, I’ve been known to grab my coat abruptly and say something like, “I’m going out to buy tampons and scrapbooking supplies, so don’t even think about following me.”

Other times, I might try to get Bob to go out. Let’s face it: It’s nice to have the house to yourself once in a while. “Hey, Bob. It says here in the paper that a Hooters just opened up on Maple Street. Maybe you should check it out.”

And let me tell you, it goes both ways. Recently, we were at the mall around closing time when Bob said, “I wouldn’t mind watching one of my spy movies solo tonight. How’s about you shoplift that sweater? I’ll bail you out tomorrow morning.”

Sometimes it is a collaborative effort. On January 1 this year, we pulled out the calendar and talked schedules. Could I go to a Pilates class on Tuesdays? Could he commit to giving blood more often, preferably in the evenings? Could one of us become an alcoholic and start going to twice-weekly AA meetings? (I called dibs on this one.)

Now we just need to decide who’s going to take one for the team over Presidents Day weekend and wind up in the hospital with food poisoning; in our house, nothing says love quite like eating a plate of contaminated seafood.

 

Alternatives to #Childfree

Image via CrunchBase

There’s a battle raging in the Twitterverse about the proper use of the hashtag #childfree.

Parents sometimes use #childfree after they’ve dropped the kids off at grandma’s for a couple of hours.

Childless by choice folks say #childfree is reserved for people who don’t have and don’t want kids. Furthermore, they say, if these parents really love their kids, why are they so delighted to get rid of them?

As a member of the childfree community, I tend to be possessive of the childfree moniker. Not as possessive as I am of my pretzel M&Ms but more possessive than I am of my armrest at the movies. There aren’t many places we childfree folks can go for camaraderie and support. We have to gather on Twitter, many of us in anonymity, like we are criminals on the lam or former John Edwards supporters. We do this under #childfree.

But do I think a mom who wants to go to Target by herself once in a while doesn’t really love her kids? No, and here’s why: I love my husband very much, but I don’t want his face in my face 24/7.

Back to the hashtag issue.

I want to be part of the solution. Below are a few hashtags that I think could work for people who have been temporarily relieved of their parenting duties:

• If you have popped out a kid (or kids) and then dropped them off somewhere, might I suggest #poppedanddropped? (Is that too many characters? I understand the need for brevity on Twitter; it’s why I think childfree folks rarely use #childlessbychoice.)
• If a kind friend or relative has just sprung you from the parenthood clink so you can go to Starbucks without your offspring in tow, how about #offsprung?
• If you are taking a well-deserved but temporary break from your child or children, could you use #chiatus?

There must be other respectful suggestions out there. What you got?

 

Who Needs Sleep? This Girl

One of the (many) reasons I am childless by choice is I am very attached to a little thing called sleep.

I’m told kids like to wake up at 5:30 a.m. (earlier on weekends, Christmas and any day you have off from work). Or they will get in bed with you at 2 a.m. and then kick you in the face for the next five hours as they get comfortable.

Homey don’t play that.

The general consensus is that people should get about eight hours of sleep a night. Eight hours is my bare minimum. Less than that and I feel foggy-headed and physically drained, like I have just finished running an ultramarathon. I am afraid to operate the toaster oven and my electric toothbrush.

In order to be up for work on time during the week, I go to bed around 10:30 p.m.—unless there are dishes to do, in which case I turn in closer to 10 and leave them for my husband.

On the weekends, I’ve been known to sleep from 10 p.m. to 9 a.m. and then take a nap an hour and a half later. (What? Eating cereal in your pajamas and watching back-to-back-to-back episodes of “Extreme Couponing” is exhausting.)

I’ve always had this need for sleep. As a baby, I was sleeping through the night at six weeks. Even in college, I never pulled an all-nighter. I was the nerd who finished her English papers three days early. I was the live wire who went to a party on Saturday night and hit a wall at midnight.

Besides the fact I resemble a drunk navigating an alien planet if I don’t get enough sleep, I also have a very active dream life that I find more entertaining than Charlie Sheen’s rants, the Monica Lewinsky scandal and the Twitter musings of @FunkyLukewarmMedina combined. Or any Celine Dion show by itself. In the past few weeks, I have dreamed that:

• I finished second in a corn-husking competition. My prize was a box set of season 3 “Murder, She Wrote” DVDs. The winner got a king-size Snickers bar.
• I was on the verge of making the U.S. gymnastics team when Teddy Ruxpin sabotaged my parallel bars routine. He threw a Chinese star at me as I was beginning my dismount.
• I made out with 1968 Art Garfunkel (the one from the “Bookends” album cover) in a low-lit martini bar. I was wearing a knee-length red taffeta A-line dress with off-white tulle poking out the hem. He initiated it. (What can I say? I looked good.)

I was euphoric when I woke up from this last one. I had that same feeling you get when you’ve stayed out way later than you ever imagined you would on a first date.

“It felt so real,” I told my husband.

“I believe it,” he said. “You appear to still be high from the secondhand smoke.”

Some people believe our dreams are trying to tell us something. I think mine are telling me it’s OK to give myself the gift of sleep. Also, to lay off the Benadryl.

 

‘I Do Not Like Them on a Plane’

Customers worldwide have been complaining about kids in public recently, and businesses have listened. It’s the latest round in the Parents vs. Non-Parents Smackdown, and it’s bringing up a slew of long-standing arguments.

Customers said, “I do not like them on a plane,” and Malaysian Airlines said it would no longer allow babies to fly first class on some flights.

Diners said, “I do not like them where I eat,” and a restaurant near Pittsburgh banned children under age 6 from its dining area.

The upshot is that many parents are outraged, childfree folks are feeling vindicated, and I can’t get Dr. Seuss’s “Green Eggs and Ham” out of my head. Except in this version, Sam-I-Am is a chick named Mindy Sue who believes everyone should procreate and green eggs and ham are the little buggers themselves.

I’m Mindy Sue.

That Mindy Sue.
That Mindy Sue.
I do not like that Mindy Sue.

Don’t you want a kid or two?

I do not want one, Mindy Sue.
I do not want a kid or two.

Do you want one in a year?

I do not want one in a year.
I’d rather shove glass up my rear.
I’m happy being childfree.
Now take a hike and let me be.

But don’t you like kids when you fly
Even though they scream and cry?

I do not like them on a plane.
I do not like them on a train.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them anywhere.

Don’t you like them where you eat?
Don’t you think they’re cute and sweet?

Not where I eat.
Not at the beach.
Not at the park.
Not on an ark.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them anywhere.

Do you like them at the store?
I’m sure you would if they were yours.

I do not like them at the store.
I don’t want kids.
But wait! There’s more:
I do not like them where I eat.
I do not like them at the beach.
I do not like them on a plane.
I do not like them on a train.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them ANYWHERE.

But every little girl and boy
Is a precious gift, a joy!

Holy balls, give me a break
I just don’t think kids are so great.
I like to fly and eat in peace.
Now please go take a flying leap.