Easy V's: A Gentlemen's Club

I like to think of myself as a reasonably fun chick. I’ll try anything once - twice if I feel it needs another chance. So when my boyfriend invited me to join him and his friends at one of the first places they partied when they got to Fayetteville "for nostalgic reasons" – on our date night, no less – I decided to go. My boyfriend’s friends had somehow managed to coerce two random chicks to go with us, both professional women, so I felt a little less apprehensive about going.  And I’m sorry dad, I know you’re probably gonna read this and I hope it makes you feel better to know that I will never go into this line of work. Not because I don’t respect it, but because I don’t have the balls or desire to rub my goodies in strange peoples’ faces. Moving right along:

Let me start out by explaining that my boyfriend under the influence of a lot of beer is funnier than when he is sober; he’s sweet and manageable. When introduced to any type of hard liquor, the lucky-to-have-me bastard loses his mind. It’s like listening to a cross between a disgruntled, old, half deaf, Vietnam War veteran and a retired football star reliving his glory days in stereo surround sound. Sometimes, he gets mad at himself and then forgives himself out loud. Other times he looks at me like he doesn’t know me and gives me the L.L. Cool J lip licking smile and nod until he realizes I’m his girlfriend and then comes in for the kiss – wet lips and all. Good times.

It was dollar beer night at Easy V’s on Sunday night and I listened to the boys reminisce about how their roommate lost two iPhones there, spent $400 on alcohol and girls and some other story that I only half listened to because I realized it was only 7 p.m. and we were sitting at a strip club with no girls shaking it for dollar bills. Talk about major disappointment. My boyfriend explained to me that it was still early and the girls were late. His roommate took one of the other chicks who came with us to play pool and his friend was deeply engrossed in the other chick’s assets – I mean conversation.

Seriously, the atmosphere was not that bad, the music was better than any dance club in Fayetteville and the service was pretty good even if I didn’t drink. I relaxed a little and was enjoying listening to the boyfriend talk about his past adventures, how clubs in Fayetteville don’t compare to the ones back home and that there was a certain etiquette any patron of a gentlemen’s club should be aware of. That last bit came out of a comment I made about how I didn’t care to see him spend his money on another chick to shake her ass when he could spend those two dollars on me – hell, I’d do it for a soda (not really dad). I was watching the struggle he was having as other dudes got their faces mashed between baby oiled, perfumed stripper-breasts – he wanted it pretty bad but was holding back for me. How sweet. Then it was like a lightbulb went off in his intoxicated brain. He shoved two dollars in my shirt, smiled like he won something and pointed to the stage.

There was a dancer straddling another chick and giving her face a boob massage and my boyfriend wanted me to get the same facial treatment. There is nothing more gross to me than having random people’s sweaty, oily, perfumed body parts rubbed all over my face – no offense ladies who are exotic dancers, but while I saw dancers wipe down the pole, I never saw them wipe where some guy’s face had been. Germ collecting at it’s finest. Ew.

 Anyway, this was the closest to a threesome my boyfriend figured he would ever get. I really wanted to do it, but I couldn’t cause I’m not that kind of fun. I didn’t want my boyfriend to be too disappointed so I let him tip the dancers as long as they didn’t give him the boob rub. He held onto that money until a tattooed dancer came onstage and started making out with another girl – he paid them to prolong the performance and got more than two dollars should ever get a man. It pays to be the best looking guy in the gentlemen’s club. And he knew exactly how navigate his way around one. Which brings me to something he said about tipping the girls.

“This is their job, but the money they make isn’t just for them. They have to tip out the DJ, bouncers and, in some cases, a fee to dance at a particular establishment. So, you tip the girls for effort.”

How thoughtful.

It did made sense, though, and I took note of how much the girls were getting tipped that night. It was still early, but it didn’t seem to be going well. One of the girls who came with us was hugging all the dancers, pretty much getting for free what the dudes have to pay for – but not offering money at first. Eventually, after much alcohol, she got cash and was getting her face smooshed for dollar bills. I wished I had extra money to give all of them, but I figured if it wasn’t going well overall, these girls would probably have other jobs. At least one of them was making enough to get a boob job.

We ended up leaving around 9 p.m. and stopping off at the Waffle House like it was 2 a.m. Turns out, the best time to go to the WH is at 9 p.m. on Sunday night – because no one else will be there. Except employees from Olive Garden, dudes coming from an early night at the bar and that one guy who says he’s a barber and needs a ride down Yadkin Road because he has to get to work.

“Who’s hair are you cutting this late at night, dude, there aren’t any barber shops open.”

He held out his beauty apron as proof of his occupation.

“I just need a ride to work. Look, I have money.”

He holds out a handful of cash.

“Then you can pay for a cab. It’s late and we’re going home after this.”

That’s when he started rambling about doing good for others and what if Jesus needed a ride. Which made me think of Joan Osborne’s “What if God Was One of Us.” But seriously, I felt a little sorry for the guy until every horror and Lifetime movie gone wrong scenario played through my brain. After seeing how may different ways a simple “ride to work” could go wrong, I decided that I wanted to live and he was gonna have to just walk.

My boyfriend had been in the bathroom for much of the exchange and when he came out, he looked slightly confused. Mr Barber went through his spiel again and my boyfriend pointed to me and said, “she’s driving,” sat down and proceeded to clean up the biscuits and gravy over loaded hash browns with bacon. I’ve never wanted to slap a person in one instant in my life, but I had to remember he was drunk and men are simple. The simple thought was that he wasn’t driving, I was and therefore, I was responsible for who gets to ride in my car.

Needless to say, I didn’t give homey a ride to whatever job he was trying to get to. I drove home, pretty convinced that he was not, in fact, Jesus in disguise. It was a solid decision that I was happy with. My good deed in being the designated driver and displaying such heroic acts of patience all night was rewarded when, at about 11:30 p.m., my boyfriend was compelled by the many shots of liquor he thought he was secretly drinking, to release every bit of the Waffle House he ate.

I know that sounds callous, but I have my reasons. My only request on nights I go out with my Boyfriend is that he not drink hard liquor. Beer is okay. And it was dollar beer night at Easy V’s, he was throwing dollars at the bartender and treating his friends like a ‘G.’ But there were mirrors on the walls in front of the bar and I could see everytime he went to go get beer, he was buying himself a shot. Was I mad? I probably should have been, but it was just too funny that he though he was being slick. It was going to make for an interesting night – and it did.

Maybe I’m not as much fun as I could be. I watch other girls go out and cut loose and they have a blast, but I’m always worried about who is gonna take care of the drunk people. So, while I would love to partake in some alcoholic adventures just to prove I’m not a square, I kind of like being the only one who can remember what really happened on any given night.

I95+70MPH+Coyote=Dammit

So, there I was on I-95 at 3am on Sunday morning, driving home from Raleigh. I was driving 70 mph, talking to my boyfriend about what a great time we had that day and evening, listening to music while trying to stay awake. That's when it happened. All I saw was a shock of brown in my headlights and heard a loud thump as it made impact with the front end of my car. It was a coyote. Yes, there are coyotes, raccoons, possums and deer that cross the interstate regularly. Why a coyote decided to cross the highway at that exact moment was nothing short of an FML moment for him.

We pulled off at the next exit thinking there was probably only body damage and I would have lived with that as long as it was still running. But God decided that it wasn't going to be my lucky day. That coyote pretty much destroyed the radiator, cooling fan and mount on the front of my car, rendering it 'jacked the f*** up' just 45 miles from Fayetteville. My boyfriend, God bless him, did what every man does in situations where they don't really know what they are doing: he surveyed the damage and announced that my car was probably un-driveable and offered me his AAA card and was going to take care of me. That reminded me that I had my own AAA card and I could probably take care of myself so I decided to use it. The tow back home was free and had another, "Dang, my dad was right" moments as I crawled into bed at 3am.

It wasn't over yet, though, as I had my car taken to the repair shop early in the morning. PETA forgive me, but after finding out the cost of the damage to my car, if that coyote didn't die on impact I wanted him to. Because that plus the inconvenience of being without a car for two days and finding out that you can't rent a car if you're self-employed and don't have a credit card was making it hard for me to have a nice day. But, the damage could have been much worse, I could have been alone without AAA and paying out of my ass to get back home or I could have hit a deer and totaled my car beyond repair. I know these things.

I supposed I could list all the things I should be thankful for after I'm finished with my pity party of one: Bonita Applebottoms, the boyfriend, AAA & my dad, the car will be ready tomorrow, Jersey Shore repeats and my ability to 'take care of it and get over it.' I'm not too sure that I will be commuting the 95 when it's that dark anymore now that I know that there are suicidal furry animals ready to kamikaze my car.

Once upon a time at my Grampa's funeral

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm still a little immature. It's what keeps me young and helps me understand my pre-teen daughter. Immaturity runs in my family, particularly when it comes to me and my middle brother who is a year younger than me. Check it:



A few years ago, my Grampa passed away. I'd never been to an Italian funeral before and it surprised me to know that after the burial, there was a reception where everyone gathered to eat, drink and be Italian. Someone suggested I should bring my camera to take pictures, which I thought was a little weird but I brought it anyway. I figured there would be a lot of family there I hadn't seen in a while or ever and I could get some shots of all of them. Well, you know how they say everything happens for a reason? There was a reason I was at that funeral with my camera and it had nothing to do with taking pics of my family.



So there I was, sitting next to my middle brother and we both notice the painting on the opposite end of the reception hall. It's an old painting of a woman with her boob hanging out of her robe. My bro looks at me, I look at him and with a mischievous nod of understanding we make our way across the hall to the painting.



"Okay, be quick," he said. "On the count of three."



1...2...3!!!



I lifted my camera as my brother turned his face up towards the exposed boob in the painting as if he were going to put it in his mouth. My flash goes off and now we are the center of attention. I've never seen my dad move so fast in my life and if you think that parents don't smack you on the back of your head after you're an adult, you are mistaken. But my dad wanted to laugh, I could see it in his face. My brother and I never had another synced thought after that day and it's as well we didn't, there was never another opportunity for such an awesome event to take place.



I'm hoping that God has a sense of humor, because I'm sure it was wrong on a religious level to do something so un-Catholic at a funeral - even if it was funny. It's not like we were in a church, it was at a banquet hall at a funeral home.



And without further ado ... the photo:

Dawn goes to a 'kick ass' show

There are not too many occasions that I hit up a live show in Fayetteville – or anywhere else for that matter. It’s not for lack of good shows, but more because I’m not really sure what to do with myself at one. Most of the time, I’m familiar with the music but not intimate enough to know the words or identify with the feelings the each song represents to a number of the fans attending a show. Music doesn’t hit me like it does everyone else, apparently. Yep, I’m that lame, socially awkward, out of place chick at THAT show. So, I end up tapping my foot and staring at everyone else like I’m the normal one when it’s really me that’s weird.



My boyfriend LOVES the Deftones. Back in July, I found out they were playing at the Rock Shop here in Fayetteville. I’ve never seen him get so excited about anything. He was so excited that he didn’t even mind that the show was postponed for a month after the original date of the ticket. There’s not much that my boyfriend gets visibly excited about and I realized just before the concert that I had really never seen him so … so … well, excited. Well, except for playing golf and watching Michigan kick Ohio State’s ass in football.



So, there I was, standing in the middle of the Rock Shop and my boyfriend is rocking out to the first song by the Deftones, a band I admit I know pretty much next to nothing about. Mid-fist-pump he decides to take off to the ‘pit’ at the front of the stage, dragging me behind him. Everyone is jumping around, taking shots with their cam-phones and dancing. Yes, you can dance to rock music. If you’re not a ‘dancer’ you should be a ‘watcher.’ Watch out for flying fists, elbows and the occasional foot as people get passed around over the crowd. I was almost clocked in the eyeballs several times because I was not a good enough watcher and my boyfriend forgot I was standing next to him. That was our first trip to the pit. It wasn’t long, wasn’t that bad and I was pretty much inhaling bass from the speakers while my ears got numb from the sound. Not gonna lie, I was feeling pretty cool by the time we rejoined our other friends outside the pit. I was even tapping my foot and bobbing and weaving my head like a pro.



Our next trip to the pit was later into the concert. By that time, it was evident that the A/C wasn’t cooling anything down. As I scanned the venue, I noticed that everyone was covered in sweat, either their own or someone else’s. Chicks who had clearly spent time on their face and hair gave up trying to preserve their look as make-up was smeared and hair was reacting to the elements and environment. Even mine. As my boyfriend once again pulled me to the pit, I was dragged across sweaty bodies and sprayed with beverages fist pumping to yet another song I didn’t really know. Then, above all the other noise, I heard my boyfriend’s voice chanting, “Play Cherry Waves.”



Let me interject a lesson here: I learned a long time ago to never make eye contact with a drunk person in a place that’s too loud to hear anything. They will insist on explaining themselves to you until they are sure you understand. If you know the person, it’s just a mild irritant. If you don’t know them, the smell of alcohol will burn your eyes.



My boyfriend kept yelling in my already deaf ear that “Cherry Waves” was the most awesome song in the history of the Deftones album career. Maybe it was and I did care, but I really wanted him to stop yelling in my ear. He did stop yelling in my ear, but kept shouting for the “Cherry Waves” song as we made our way out of the pit again. When we made it back to our spot, I smelled like I bathed in a mix of a 12 year old’s body odor after playing outside in the hot sun and sweaty cologne. My boyfriend, though, never stopped yelling for “Cherry Waves.” It was to the point that I wanted to find someone in charge of operations and tell them to please have the band play the damn “Cherry Waves” song so my boyfriend would just stop yelling for it, I was afraid his fist was gonna connect with either my head or someone else’s and I wasn't ready for that.



But I kept my cool and assumed my place as THAT girl while my boyfriend and his friend continued to yell for a song that woouldn’t get played and talk about how awesome the band was when they saw them on the West Coast. In between, my boyfriend would remember I was there and affectionately squeeze my ass and then put me in a headlock to kiss my forehead. Why? Because he promised to pay more attention to his body language when we were out so that it looked like we were together.



By the time we left the show, we were covered in sweat, ours or someone else’s or both, the guys were pretty tanked on PBR and it was raining outside as we made our way back to my car with my boyfriend wondering why the Deftones didn't play "Cherry Waves." But it wasn’t a miserable time. As a matter of fact, it was one of the best I’ve had going out in Fayetteville. I was smelly and wet and in charge of two grown men who weren’t capable of being in charge of themselves thanks to the beer chick and an ATM inside, but the show was awesome. I got to see a few friends I never see otherwise and got hit on at least once, assuming a high five and a “you’re beautiful” counts. You know what? I’m making that count. The night didn't before Taco Bell, chicken wings and a black marker played a huge part in the shenanigans of the following hour. What was I doing? Making sure I couldn't be blamed for any of it.

Wax On ... Wax o - OUCH!

As a woman, there are certain things we don’t want: cellulite, wrinkles, small breasts and unsightly, unwanted hair. We will try anything – ANYTHING - to fix any of those problems (all of which I have by the way). Money is no object. Except for me.



I’m a self-employed, single mom, so spending cash on boobs, laser treatments or having my skin peeled back on my face is not in my budget. But waxing my nether regions, while still costing a pretty penny, is within reach of my bank account. Who doesn’t want their vagina to look like a porn star’s? I, for one, don’t much like having a 5 o’clock shadow down there. And shaving only keeps it smooth for, like, a few hours or until you get goosebumps once. How cool would it be to have the shaved look last longer? I was always looking for a better, longer lasting solution to body hair.



Back in junior high school, I learned that if you pull hair out by the root, it will grow back finer. If you do it often, eventually the hair will grow back less and less – each treatment lasting four weeks. That was what the infomercial for the Epilady said. For those of you who don’t know what an Epilady is, it’s a medieval torture device disguised as a miracle hair removal tool that anyone can use with little to no pain. It’s a Norelco shaver-like thing with a rotating coil that grabs hair and pulls as it turns, pulling the hair out in bunches. I used it for the approximate time it took to catch one clump of hair, scream, try to disentangle the hair from the device and then beg the good Lord to please make it stop and if he did I would never, ever do anything bad again. That was just one strip on my leg!



So the pain of having my hair yanked from my body was pretty distant and I was ready to try something new – the Brazilian Wax. I wanted a pretty girl part and this seemed like the perfect way to get one. I made my appointment a week ago. I was afraid the hair wouldn’t grow in enough by the time my appointment came around, but I shouldn’t have worried - Italian hair is superhuman and in another week, I would have sported a full bush. I showed up at my appointment ready and with enough to grab.



OUCH!



For anyone thinking about doing this, be prepared to show yourself to another human the way you may have only shown yourself to your boyfriend, husband or gynecologist. This is a 'front to back' procedure. You also need to know it’s gonna hurt pretty bad the first time. But if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t scream at all. Nope. My entire being did, however, want to punch itself in the face briefly. After the initial sting, that feeling passes and it's like plucking your own really hairy, sensitive eyebrows. It's also client participation: meaning, you will be asked to help hold the skin taut. Having something else to do besides anticipate the pain does help. I heard that in some cases, if they don't get all the hair, the tweezers come out to grab the strays that survived the deforestation. Not where I went. The results last from three to six weeks regardless of whether you're a hairy monster or not. Deal.



It was over quick enough, though, and my va-jay-jay was so pretty and smooth, I could give Jenna Jameson a run for her cash. And aside from a little numbness, it didn’t hurt after it was all over. Would I do it again? Bank account permitting - yes. Would I recommend it to anyone else? Absolutely. It's one of those little things that make you feel instantly prettier and girlier for a fraction of the cost of laser treatments - like a wonderbra to small boobs.

Of course you didn't mean any disrespect.

I made a mental note to myself a long time ago not to spill too many personal things onto my blog unless I could laugh about the experience. But I’m going to make an exception this one time because I think maybe someone can either take away from this or call me a tool.

About two years ago I had a falling out with my BFF (at the time.) It was kind of nasty drama for being adults with kids in high school and over those two years any talk between us consisted of her trying to convince me that I was gossiping about her. As if I had the time or the interest. The true fact is that this woman has slandered me to those I knew and those I didn’t know. So, I started to ignore her, her new friends and even when mutual friends started to fade away from me, I chose to let it go.

If she ever saw me out, and she was out every time I was out, we would not make eye contact but should it happen we’d nod hello. She has told my friends recently that what happened between us spun out of control and she wished it hadn’t happened. Not only did she not tell me that, she had yet to speak one word to me other than trying to re-hash her conspiracy theory about what I was saying about her.

Before I continue, I have to interject one small piece of information that will make sense later – I hope. My daughter was close to this woman (and she is a grown woman) when she and I were still friends. When things were no longer kosher, I never explained it to my daughter other than it was an issue that we would eventually fix. She was banking on that and would periodically ask me about it. What could I say? I started sounding like one of those women trying to explain why daddy doesn’t come visit anymore.

Cut to two years later and just a few hours earlier to Huske Hardware House. Me, my daughter and my friend, Mamasita, and her family are all enjoying a get-together. In walks the ex-BFF with her crew. Walks right by the table and doesn’t say anything. About a half hour later, she walks by again. Still doesn’t say anything. Her boyfriend, who was a guy I had thought I was dating (it’s all subjective) last year but he turned out to be married and dating another woman, comes by the table to talk to one of the guys sitting with us. I’m too cool that he didn’t try to say hi. That could have been awkward for him. But to his credit, and hers, they look great together. Like the Marlboro Man and his Woman.

Anyway, I got up to go say bye to a few people I knew and as I made my way back, Mamasita intercepted me. She told me a blonde lady took my daughter outside. I already knew who it was and yeah, it pissed me off. Before I continue, I want to be clear that my daughter walked out with this woman on her own based on how she remembers the past. I don’t doubt the affection she has for my girl even if she spits vinegar when it comes to me. As I walked outside to get my daughter, I started feeling sick to my stomach. I wrapped up their conversation and herded my daughter towards the rest of the dinner party … but then went back outside to speak with this woman who used to be like a sister to me. The feeling in the pit of my tummy was overwhelming.

I told her that until she could speak to me and make things right with me, she was not to encourage conversation with my daughter. At least that’s what I thought it sounded like, but I’m sure it came out as more of a stuttering fragmented sentence because I was welling with an extreme emotion I couldn’t put my finger on. Whatever it was, it was hindering my speech and taking over my rational thought. So when she asked me what was she supposed to do, “ignore her?,” I couldn’t put my words together to explain it. I looked like a tool when I walked away.

Leave it to my emoti-guru Mamasita to put her finger on it: I was angry. This woman had no right past saying a polite hello to my girl (after all, my daughter is 12) when you consider she can’t even say two words to me in passing. When my daughter was following her out, the responsible, grown-up thing to do would have been to tell her to wait for me, her mom, before coming outside. Because she knows that things aren’t right between us and that I would be upset. That’s respect.

I want to believe that this woman who knew me so well, and was also a mother, just didn’t realize that she was breaking etiquette. But that would be like saying she just wasn’t thinking and guys don’t think. I’d be calling her a guy and, in essence, calling her stupid – she’s far from stupid. What I didn’t want to think was that she knew it would get to me and she allowed it to happen on purpose.

The ride home with my daughter was tense. I got blamed for not making things right – again. My feelings were hurt that a nice night with my daughter was now sucking pretty badly. Then I broke down and explained to her in as few words as I could why a friendship wasn’t going to happen again between mommy and her ex-BFF and why I thought it best if she kept conversations with her to a minimum. It was a hard talk to have with my kid because I’m supposed to be the adult and be way past this kind of drama. I basically said it was like the movie ‘Bring It On’ and that we won’t make it to the end where we all do the cheer-off and then reluctantly become friends again. Because neither of us cheer anymore.

What probably upset me the most was realizing that, for the first time in my life, I disliked someone from the pit of my core that I used to love with all my heart to the point that what she did made me angry; and that perhaps it was done purposefully. Maybe I’m wrong in all of this, but I feel strongly about it, so on some level I know I have to be justified. But I didn’t back down or apologize for what I said and I won’t.

By the way: this was in no way written to slight this woman – just to share the experience and maybe get some feedback. As far as I know, she is a good person to those she feels are deserving, she’s a good mom and is also a quick study in photography. What happened tonight was so far out of character for even her that it bothered me, mostly cause it concerns my daughter.

Carolyn, I am my father ...

Being a mom is the best thing on earth, as most moms I know will agree. Perhaps the only time I cringe is when I do or say something that flashes back to my mom or dad and realize that parenthood is God's way of paying you back for all the crap you gave your parents. I had one of those moments this morning upon driving my daughter to school.

My daughter seems to think that her dad and I have some kind of psychic power to automatically know when things at school are due: homework, special projects, money for gym clothes, field trips, photos and yearbooks. Actually, all kids seem to think that about their parents, hence the last minute panic, Sunday night, when my daughter came to me for $25 for the yearbook.

"I asked dad for the money and he gave it to me and I forgot to give it to the teacher so I gave the money back to dad and I just figured I wouldn't get one this year but then my friend Noelle bought two and the yearbook lady said I could give Noelle the $25 event though they were $30 now but since Noelle bought them when they were $25 I could give Noelle the money and get it for $25 but I have to give her the money tomorrow which is Monday."

No, she did not take a single breath from start to finish. There was even a pause right after to be sure I got it and understood. After a minute or two (it needed to sink in and I wanted to see how long she could hold her breath after expelling that much hot air.)

"So, I need to give you $25 to give to Noelle for the yearbook lady so that you will get your yearbook this year?" I asked.

"Yes."

I gave my daughter $25 for Monday morning so that she would be assured a yearbook at the end of the year. Then I forgot about it — until this morning.

"Hey, Carolyn, did you get a receipt for the yearbook money I gave you?"

"No. I gave the money to Noelle. She has two receipts and when her yearbooks come in, she will give me one of them."

I stopped the car and looked at my child's sweet face as she explained to me that she and Noelle were friends and that she can be trusted.

"Honey, I don't doubt that she can be trusted, but you guys are 12 and in the 6th grade. Yearbooks come in at the end of the year. You can't even remember where you put your DS most of the time, and you want me to trust that this little girl will remember that you gave her money for a yearbook in two months?"

As I pulled into a parking space to take care of this myself, a look of horror spread across my daughter's face as she realized that I — her mom— was about to walk into her school with her while all the other students were watching. Social suicide for a middle schooler.

"Please don't do this to me," she whispered even though she knew I was gonna do it anyway. "I'll get the receipt, I'll talk to Noelle, I promise."

I didn't trust my daughter to remember to do that. She forgets her homework most nights.

See, in my head, I basically gave some other 12 year old girl $25 without the guarantee that there would be a yearbook at the end of it. I'm not into giving other people's kids money for nothing and was going to make sure that this transaction ended up in a receipt that will produce a yearbook for my daughter or I want my $25 back from Ms. Noelle, the trusted friend, aka: the Bookie.

As we crossed the walk to the school, the crossing guard asked Carolyn what was wrong.

"You look a little pale," he noticed.

"I'm okay, my mom is just making a mountain out of a molehill," she said.

Now, you had to see her walking into the school, two steps away from me with her head bowed like no one was going to connect her to me. I let her have that. She ran to her homeroom before anyone could make the connection between her and me while I made my way to the yearbook teacher.

"Oh yes!" Ms. Yearbook Lady said. "I remember those two. They were supposed to bring me the money so that I could transfer a receipt. Just have them come see me at lunch and I will do that for them."

Relieved, I scouted my daughter out in her homeroom. She looked up, saw me and turned away quickly. Oh, no she didn't.

"Carolyn, honey, come here for a minute," I called out to her from the door, a little too loud, a little too sweet, in my best mommy voice. Damn if those acting classes didn't work for me.

"Carolyn, your sister is calling you," said one of her friends.

"She's not my sister, she's my mom," she ground through her teeth.

She walked over to me as I relayed instructions per Ms. Yearbook Lady and threatened her with laptop restriction should she forget. Then I smother her with kisses and tell her I love her, a little louder than normal. Her friends didn't laugh at her though. It was as though they could feel her pain.

As I left the school, I reflected back on my own adolescence and understood the great joy my dad took in embarrassing me in front of my friends and even people I didn't know. Then I got a little nauseous as I realized that I was becoming my dad. Now I know what "money doesn't grow on trees" means as well as the desire to laugh and beat my daughter at the same time for stupid stuff. Like making drug deals in the cafeteria with my $25 for a yearbook instead of going straight to the source.

Single mom pet peeve

"I know how to do anything—I'm a mom," ~ Roseanne Barr

One of my slowly growing pet peeves is how people like to say they "understand" single motherhood — whether they are the spouse of a deployed Soldier or if they don’t have kids at all. Some of the best lines I’ve heard are, "My mom was a single mom," "My husband is deployed” and "I date a lot of single moms." That last one always cracks me up.

I get that you can sympathize with me, but don’t patronize me (or any other single mom) by attempting to empathize or compare your life with mine. It’s not just pretentious, but insulting. Why would I feel that way when someone is obviously trying to feel my situation? Let me tell you a story:

A few months ago, I had a discussion with my boss at work that became slightly heated. It went from her complaining about how part of the office was taking advantage of the flexibility in hours to my situation with my daughter. With my current custody agreement with her dad, my daughter stays with me for a week at a time. So, every other week, I made sure I left at 5pm so that my 12 year old didn’t have to stay home alone for too long after school.

Everyone was cool with it for a long time, but apparently, my boss was not. I know she must have been holding in that little gem for a long time because she nearly burst a blood vessel by attempting to make her displeasure known to me. She suggested that there was no reason I absolutely had to leave at 5pm everyday; I was letting my daughter stay home alone for an hour and a half every day, what’s the difference if I leave her longer? Maybe I should invest in adequate daycare if I was worried about leaving her. Then she said something that just hit a nerve:

“I’m a single mom, too. My husband is deployed and I have to do everything myself, I don’t have help. I pay for daycare and I arrange to leave ten minutes early everyday so that I can take care of my son.” (Like I didn’t make arrangements to leave at the end of my workday, which happened to be at 5pm.)

I paraphrased, but there it is. Okay, if your husband is deployed and you have to take care of your kids on your own, that does not make you a single mom. Not all the way. Come back and talk to me when you have to work full time, try to make ends meet on one income and have to sacrifice what you want for your child’s needs because the one paycheck you are making is barely enough to get by.

This is not to say that moms who have to do it on their own with their husbands being gone don’t have a rough time. I can sympathize with how hard it is to take care of your kids when you’re used to having your man around. I can imagine the emotional toll that deployment takes on military families; however, I can’t say I know how it feels, so I don’t. That’s a different hardship altogether. I also know that there are a lot of married families just making it on one income or even with two. I would never presume to know what it’s like in their shoes based on what I was able to do, so when I tell someone that I can’t afford the daycare on my salary and I don’t feel safe leaving my daughter home alone for longer than I have to because I worry, they shouldn’t try to belittle me as a parent and hard worker by comparing my situation to their own.

However, I think it's the funniest thing when guys tell me they understand what it’s like to be a single mom. Do you really? Why? Is it because you watched your mom take care of you as a single parent or because you have dated a lot of single moms? Again, unless you are a single parent, just shut up or choose different words. Instead of saying, “I know what it’s like because …” say something like, “I have respect for single parents.” That’s an honest statement that will make your story about your mom, sister or ex-girlfriend more legit. Not like you're trying to impress us with your sensitive side.

When I think about this, I don’t really get mad so much as annoyed. I’m not looking for pity from anyone because of my situation and I don’t try to get special treatment from my employer; I work around my schedule and if I need help, I ask. I’m not the only single parent who works at the company. What I am is a mom trying to work hard at her job and be a good parent at the same time.

Sometimes, you have to know your priorities and it's kind of nice when the people you work with and for respect that.