what may be the last words from coffeeyogurt for, like, ever

Goodbye Cruel World.

Because there are times when the world is too harsh, too unforgiving, too filled with head lice.

Our first battle was five years ago. Two second graders and one fifth grader. Three long haired kids, thousands of strands to be searched.

We managed to rid the oldest two of their affliction within two weeks. The third child? Long, fine, light brown, copper highlighted locks where lice loved to linger? Took months. A good six months, maybe nine. Some of the worst months of child rearing, I do know that. Nights of crying, whining, howling and growling from the child who, it became apparent, could least bear the suffering.

So of course, this time around, it has to be the copper headed child whose group of friends invited us back to Lice Nation.

I discovered the lice midnight Friday. Which meant delivering the most devastating news of all to a middle school girl's ears: no sleepovers and no slumber parties.

And so everyday for the next several weeks her dad and I will sitting on our picnic table, in the bright sunlight, hunched over our child's head, ensconced in coke bottle glasses bought specifically for the purpose, diligently combing.

Because if there's one tip that I recommend? That finally ended our months of failed attempts?

Reading glasses. The strongest power glasses and the cheapest you can find (thank you Dollar Store).

You may look like a middle aged, transgender Buddy Holly while you're at it but you'll be able to see those little mo-fo Phthiraptera basturds and get your life back.

driving me to drink

I was driving in the car with my son who is learning to drive. Or to be more accurate, I was being held hostage in the passenger seat wishing I'd asked my doctor for some beta-blockers.

My son was weeks away from taking his driver's test.

I was weeks away from marching up the steps to the Governor's mansion to demand he issue an executive order to pray for rain raise the driving age to 18 21.

We're on a busy highway with cars speeding past. Heading north on Mopac just before Enfield exit, for my fellow Austin road travelers. Right there were the lanes narrow and the congestion gets hairy.

So my unlicensed teen driver was behind the wheel, cars whizzing past, violating every single rule I'm trying to impress on my son as important.

He asks me why it's ok for all the other cars on the road to drive so close to the cars in front of them.

My reply: Experienced drivers often break a lot of safety rules, like tailgating too close and changing lanes without using their blinker. Experienced drivers can get away with it. But you're a new driver and as a new dri---

My son's thoughtful rebuttal: I'm not a new driver, MOM!

My reply: (Screeching in the most undignified manner.) Not a new driver? What?  You don't even have your license yet!

Son: (Very calm and mature-like. I'm not sure where he has learned this.) But I'm not a new driver.

Me: And what is your definition of a new driver, then?

Son: Someone who has just learned to drive.

Three questions:

(1) Is anyone shocked that car insurance rates for new drivers are so high?

(2) Is it too late to find religion?

(2) Can someone please tell me we will survive this?

Thank you, Worst Mother, for supplying the perfect illustration.

help. I suffer from AID.

Astrological Idendity Disorder.

For more years than I care to reveal I've been solid in my ability to answer the dreaded question, "What's your sign?"

Aires has been my firm answer.

Til now.

According to experts of the astrological kind, "Due to the Earth's changing alignment in the last 3000 years" the sign I was born into is now different.

I'm now, these experts say, a Pisces.

But hold on. That's my mother's sign.

I know a little something about her sign. I used to read her forecast when I was in high school: Will Mom let me borrow her car tonight or won't she?

But now, it's me who is the Pisces. Which means not only is my face developing wrinkles in the same place as hers, my personality has become her. That life long fear of turning into my mother? Yeah. It's happening. Right before my very stars.

Whereas before I was:

- Independent

- Generous

- Optimistic

- Enthusiastic

- Courageous

Now I am:

- Compassionate

- Adaptable

- Accepting

- Devoted

- Imaginative

Not so bad. And as it turns out, Pisces is more like me. Which means my worst nightmare has come true.

I am more like my mother than I am like myself.

Here are the new signs with their new date configurations.

Capricorn: Jan. 20 - Feb. 16

Aquarius: Feb. 16 - March 11

Pisces: March 11- April 18

Aries: April 18- May 13

Taurus: May 13- June 21

Gemini: June 21- July 20

Cancer: July 20- Aug. 10

Leo: Aug. 10- Sept. 16

Virgo: Sept. 16- Oct. 30

Libra: Oct. 30- Nov. 23

Scorpio: Nov. 23- Nov. 29

Ophiuchus: Nov. 29- Dec. 17

Sagittarius: Dec. 17- Jan. 20

So now my question is, how do I answer that age-old smarmy getting-to-know-you question? Never mind that I'm not in the dating game and haven't been asked this question in over twenty years.

Although, I do recall a recent conversation at a bar with an Asian woman obviously new to this country. Trying to strike up conversation and, apparently, sound American, she asked,

"What sign you are?"

Which sounded to me like, "What's eye you are?"

To which I asked, "Pardon?"

To which she replied, "What's eye is that?"

To which I asked, "Excuse me?"

This went back and forth until a few beers questions later we finally got on track.

"Oh! I'm Aires!" I practically leaped, grateful that she wasn't both unfamilliar with the language AND mentally disturbed.

You might have noticed from the list that there's a new sign on the astrological block:

Ophiuchus (OFF-ee-YOO-kuss), which, after a few beers, might sound like "Aw fee-uck you us."

And which also means, if you are born between November 29th and Dec. 17th, you get to tell that smarmy bar fly with the 70's mustache what your sign is and to f*ck off at the same time.

What about you, reader? Are you undergoing a personality change right before your very stars?

ssssshhhhhh .. don't tell

Disappearing for a little while.

Slumber party.

Twelve girls.

Twelve years old.

Twelve hours

in the attic

ought to cover it.

If not?

There's always vodka.

the meaning of the bird

About talking to your kids early and often? A big thank you, halleluliah and Yes Ma'am! to Juggling Jenn who posted a book review on straight talk about sex. I second everything she said. (And want to read the book).

I would like to add that a big piece of keeping the communication open with our kids is to listen without criticizing. If you hear your child repeat a bad word? Or ask one of those questions you didn't think you would hear until they were old enough to vote?

First. Check your feelings at the door.

Second. Keep your expression neutral, open and accepting.

Third. Listen. Quietly. As in, wait. Wait a little longer. Until they finish saying what they need to say. You will be amazed at how much more you hear this way. How much more your kids have heard, seen, or wondered about, when you give them free and neutral space to share.

Fourth. Ask what they think about it.

Refer back to first, second, and third.

Fifth, clear up the errors and uncertainty with as open minded a discussion as you can muster.

Because nothing shuts kids down more than a screechy "OMG! Where did you hear that? I don't ever want to hear you say that again! Is that clear, missy?"

Or a disgusted look. Or feinting. Or throwing yourself to the ground crying. Or throwing a Bible at them.

Like Jenn, whose parenting opinions I admire, we've also had a blow job conversation at the dinner table. And an anal sex conversation. And why kids use so many curse words on the school bus.

And a frank discussion of what it means to flip the bird (give the middle finger, in case you live under a rock).

Because seriously, have you ever tried to explain this doozie of a gesture before to three under-age faces filling their milk-rimmed mouths with ravioli?

On the fly?

As in you've never really thought about what it really means before?

When you're pretty sure they've seen you use this very gesture in the car?

It's not easy. And I'm not sure my husband and I did such a great job. But more important than my kids seeing their parents squirm understanding what this crude expression conveys and why their parents people unleash the bird with such frequency, we have taught them that they can get accurate information from us, delivered in a calm and sincere manner, designed to teach rather than preach.

Because this is nothing new. People have been cursing at each other and threatening each other and shocking each other with the many ways the human body can be used to dazzle and delight since the dawn of the bear skin thong.

And I hope my way of listening without reacting means I am increasing my influence rather than rendering myself the free speech censor, the disapproving prude, the wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap dispenser. Because if they get a horrified look followed by a punishing message? They're not going to talk to you about anything else they think might horrify you. Or disappoint you.

Respected experts in the field of adolescent development claim that one of the biggest reasons cited by teens for not telling their parents they are thinking about having sex, or have already had sex, is the fear they will disappoint their parents. And second is the fear that parents will punish. That they will wield their almighty social ax. As in, You won't be seeing HIM anymore! Or, Don't ask to go to her party!

So my strategy is to put on my PPF. My parental poker face: I'm not disappointed. I'm not surprised. I'm not shocked. I'm not disgusted. I'm not scared out of my ever-loving-wits.

No. It's perfectly natural for my 10 year old daughter to ask what it means when people say, F*ck you! Or why the boys on the bus shout, Suck my d*ck! Or the girls retort, Eat this!

So with my PPF in place, here is what it means. Here is why they might be saying it. Here is why they think it makes them sound like a grown up. Here is how it hides their insecurity about what it all means because they probably don't have anyone at home who explains this stuff to them in a calm and cool manner.

And finally? Thank them. Thank your kids for having the courage to ask. For being smart enough to get the truth from an adult source. For trusting you enough to talk straight to them.

Okay. Now use your napkin. Because you've got ravioli sauce on your chin.

s.o.s.

Stands for "sleep over scream."

Mine.

My girls are hosting a slumber party, which is to say "I" am hosting a slumber party. Six ten year olds at my house.

Is anyone willing to air-express me some psychotropics? Oh, I'm not picky ... something in the anxyolytic family, or a barbituate, or perhaps, say, a nice sedating anti-psychotic?

I'll make it worth your while. Promise.

image lifted at a fanciful twist, here.