"Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in a Bitchslap Fight Outside the Bar When That Skank Burned My Wrist with Her Cigarette"

Remember that precious Robert Fulghum book from a few years back--the one where he listed all the things he learned in kindergarten and then showed how they had carried him in good stead throughout life? In a folksy and fuzzy approach, he made millions by writing nonsense like "Play fair" and "Share everything" and "...no matter how old you are - when you go out into the world, it is best to hold hands and stick together."

Is this the right spot for a group vomit? If so, bend over with me now and make a big heave.

And you know how that smarmy Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light, puts out the "art" version of Fulghum's kind of packaged, insulting nothingness--stuff that's aimed firmly at any unthinking plebe with a Mastercard?



And you know how both men deserve to have their nostril hairs plucked out, slowly and painfully, by a the beak of a drunken hummingbird who keeps missing their nostrils and instead just pokes their eyes out?

Yea, like that. I resent their particular kind of mass-marketed crap in an eye-poking-outish-by-small-birdie fashion. I also kind of want to dismantle Pinocchio there and whack both guys in the testes with the wooden legs.

Thus, you can imagine my dismay when, recently (as I was carving Kinkade a third buttock out of Pinocchio's femur), I realized I had to give Fulghum, at least, some cred. His premise might have merit after all.

See, I live with a kindergartener. Watching him move throughout his days has, in fact, taught me a handful of life lessons:


Always leave an eye slit. Even if you have a pair of pantyhose over your head or are working the door at a speakeasy, clear vision is key to a life out of the hoosegow.

Have other people do the work while you take a rest. Construct the situation so the workers are enthusiastic about breaking a sweat while you garner all the glory. For more, see: Coldplay vs. Joe Satriani.

Drink with gusto and little discernment. Even if you're catching drips straight out of the gutter, don't be proud.

Learn to hide. Be sneaky.

So, okay. I'll back off Fulghum, to a certain extent, and will only bop lamely at his kneecaps with Pinocchio's dismembered head for a few minutes.

Kinkade, however, is getting a wooden tibia right up the pooper.

"Junior's Cause/Effect Essay"

I take my evening beverage very seriously. Once the sun begins its descent, I start the long unwind to bedtime with a beer or glass of wine. Lest you despair that I'm in a rut, do know that I've recently seen the wisdom of adding vodka to the repertoire. I mean, really, can a stool stand on only two legs? It takes three, right? Let's just call vodka, in our special buddy-buddy bloggerspeak, "Jocelyn's Third Leg." You have my permission to use that in your posts (for example: "I had the kind of cottonmouth that morning, during the Long Walk of Shame back to my apartment, that only comes from having swallowed copious amounts of Jocelyn's Third Leg the night before...").

Generally, then, when I'm tucking the kids in, it's with drink in hand. Since I don't wear a watch, it's only fair that I get my choice of alternate accessory, right? I tote my beer bottle with all the ease of a red-plaid Swatch on the wrist, truth be told. To up the bling factor of my favorite accessory, I'm considering inventing a Cocktail Hip-Holster, studded with rhinestones [patent pending].

In lieu of Holster, though, I currently just use Hand. Hand holds the bottle while I help the kids with flossing, brushing, getting into jammies. Hand is a well-balanced, reliable individual; Hand is my righthand man, metaphorically...but not literally, as I tend to grip with the left.

There is no better testament to the kind of devoted mother I am than the fact that I do order Hand to set down the beer or wine when it's time for us (Hand and me) to climb onto the kids' beds and read If You Take a Mouse to School or Sideways Tales from Wayside School. See, I have this annoying moral dictate that if I ever spill the Gewurtztraminer on the dinosaur sheets, I'll have to--frick--change them before letting the kid sleep on them. And I do so hate heaving my bulk towards the linen closet. So Hand leaves the drink on the vanity whilst I read.

Last week, there was a night when I had a glimpse into the long-term consequences of Hand's habits. The Wee Niblet, naked and therefore rightfully giddy, took a notion to play "Monster" as we prepped for bed. My assigned role was to be Da Monster, snarling and gesturing as wildly as a full beer bottle would allow, dashing around after the nekkid lad. Up and down the hall he ran, shrieking with mock fear, as I quasimodoed after him, fully engaged in simultaneous kid carousing and beer protection.

As is my wont, however, I had some meta-discourse going in my noggin as I thrashed to and fro on the Persian rug, gnashing my rotting and smelly Monster teeth. I began imagining how Niblet's freshman composition essays might read in fifteen years, when he one day taps into his personal experiences to support some larger point:

"What I recall best from my early years was my mother--a monster of a woman--chasing me around the house, as I fled from her, naked and terrorized; so clearly, I still remember how she roared at me to get to bed, her omnipresent beer in hand (always the priority), even when she tackled me to the floor in a fearsome rage."

His hard-knock life story might just win him an A, moreso than any "...and my family was really nice, and we ate a lot of chicken and sometimes yogurt too, and I liked my tricycle with the little bell on it" narrative ever could. As a teacher of freshman composition, I know this. We are suckers for adversity overcome.

So a high five to you, Hand, for your role in getting the Niblet into graduate school one day. Keep on tipping those bottles and glasses for the cause of Higher Education.