Advice for Men

Every now and then Contessa shares her wisdom with the unwise: men.

Situation # 1

I recently had a skin cancer biopsy on my forearm and was seeing a surgeon about its removal. No need to worry. It wasn't my tippling arm.

Just a few days after the biopsy, I developed a pain in my elbow. Any correlation, I asked Dr. Almighty Dollar. Nope. I was probably "favoring" my arm, he said.

Advice: Bad choice of wording Surgeon Sawbucks, unless you've got an urge to try your hand at self-suturing. Never, ever tell a woman, who, in the last decade endured both a 15-hour labor and delivery without the benefits of an epidural AND taught teenage boys how to drive, that her pain is due to 'favoring.' Contessa isn't known for favoring. Well, maybe Merlot over Chardonnay.

Situation #2

Yesterday I delivered a home-cooked meal to a young couple with a newborn baby. I'm a volunteer "Caring Cook" from my church. Ironic, eh? No one's caught wind of Contessa's culinary feats, such as the time she baked cookies for Pinot & Grigio's first gal-pals. One of the girls ended up in the hospital suffering from an allergic reaction. On her birthday, no less.

When I stepped into the family living room, dad was cradling his son. Looking at his baby decked out in blue jammies and matching sock-hat from the hospital sent me flashbacking to those first days with the twins seventeen years ago. I was flooded with memories of them sleeping all day, staying awake until wee hours in the morning, and chowing down every three hours. Oh, right, that was just last spring break.

Dad jockied the boy around so I could get a better look and I could tell him how cute his son was. I guess I didn't get a good enough look to tell daddy-o what he wanted to hear (he looks just like you?), or maybe he assumed all women were longing to hold babies, but he thrust junior toward me and asked if I'd like to hold him.

"No."

Contessa managed with one word to shatter a young man's delusion that a stranger kind enough to cook them dinner might also enjoy relieving him of his wife's-in-the-kitchen-time-to-take-baby duties. Not on your life.

Advice: Don't make assumptions about older women and babies, especially when the woman had hers two at a time. At least not until after you've eaten her dinner.

Send author a comment on this post

Contessa Could Blurb This...

Upcoming book I'd gladly blurb:

SIPPY CUPS ARE NOT FOR CHARDONNAY author Stefanie Wilder-Taylor's NAPTIME IS THE NEW HAPPY HOUR, a fresh look at modern parenting (during the tumultuous toddler years), to Patrick Price at Simon Spotlight Entertainment

By the way, everyone knows sippy cups aren't for Chardonnay. They're perfect for Cabernet. Less dribble down the chin means fewer identifiable wine stains on the blouse. Not a problem with white wine. Just tell everyone it's lemonade.

Send author a comment on this post

Hey, NASA, Look at Me!

Dear NASA Head Honcho:

I hope you remember me - I applied for a job with NASA last year. You advertised the need for subjects in a space flight simulation study called Bed Rest Project , which called for spending 120 days in a sleep lab - most of that time in a "head down tilt." I sent you an application and have not yet heard a response, which, quite frankly surprises me. I thought I spelled out my unique qualifications, including experiencing firsthand head-rushes after catching sight of my children's closets.

In light of recent news coverage about the escapades of one of your current space mommas, it occurred to me you might be stepping up the job-review process. To that end, please consider my additional qualifications.

I am:

Able to drive for hours like a rocket hurtling into orbit. Every afternoon, I throw a helmet on Cat, strap her into the back seat and have Pinot & Grigio handle pre-flight cross-check. Everyone in? Check. Buckled? Check. Mom's been to the bathroom? Check. All systems go! Then we zip off on a flight where the kids beg for more. No more, that is.

In the running to be June Allyson's replacement as Depends pitchwoman.

Unfortunately, Vegas odds are against me getting the job because I'm not perky and I still have all my own teeth - without lipstick stains.

A master of disguise. When I walk into a room and tell my kids to pick up their stuff, they act like they don't know me. You'd think I was wearing a trench-coat and wig. Maybe if I started carrying pepper spray, a mallet and rubber tubing the kids might at least pick up a sock or two.

Photogenic.

I, too, can look good in a mug-shot, complete with fly-away tresses, smeared eyeliner and bugged-out eyes. Just ask the neighbors jumping out of the way, er, waving to me, when I drive down the road.

I encourage you to review my application once more. It's the one splotched with coffee stains sitting under a stack of invoices for $150 screwdrivers and a $3,000 donation to underprivileged girls working the Cheetah Lounge. If it smells like cat yerp, that's the one. Don't worry, I wiped it all off. Most of it.

Your Space-Momma-in-Training,

Contessa

Send author a comment on this post

Danielle Schaaf is co-author of Don't Chew Jesus!(BenBella Books)and writes a humor column, Haute Flash Contessa, which appears in three Houston-area newspapers.

The Haute Flash Contessa is Schaaf's alter-ego, a mid-life mom cruising through suburbia in a minivan. She's married to The Big Guy and servant to, er, mother of three. Filling the van are twin boys Pinot and Grigio, named in honor of the Contessa's favorite Italians and because the boys, like their counterparts, are recognized by their pale yellow complexions and fragrant bouquets. They're joined by younger sister Cat, the later-in-life addition to the household. Upon learning of her impending arrival, The Big Guy cried out "I thought you said you were getting a cat!"