I’m going to propose something that may seem radical, given the hysteria that single motherhood seems to conjure in American society. The typical single mother? She doesn’t exist.
As a solo-parenting mother (which is different than a single parent — this is a nuanced “issue” my friends!), I’ve searched high and low to find out if a significant portion of single moms are representative of the stereotype that politicians, moralizing religious groups, and census statistics tell me are single (puns!) handedly causing a rise in childhood poverty. All I’ve managed to find is a group of people as diverse as our married counterparts. Keep reading »
In the few days following my dad’s passing a few weeks ago, I received flowers from friends and coworkers, endless phone calls, emails and Facebook messages expressing condolences, and more than a few people offering to help in any way they could. It was wonderful and comforting, to be sure, and would, I thought, keep me going as I set about tying up all the loose ends of my father’s “estate,” something I assumed would take a few weeks to a month, at most.
Well, a little over a week has passed, the flowers have dried, the calls have died down, and people have rightfully moved on. But, I’m realizing, the shitshow is just beginning for me. I don’t know what I was thinking, assuming that settling my dad’s affairs would be a simple process, but it’s far from it. He didn’t have a will. I won’t have a death certificate for a few weeks, at which point I can then finally establish myself as the executor of his estate, which hopefully no one will contest. (You hear that, uncle of mine?) In the meantime, his house languishes in rural Hawaii, already two months behind on the mortgage payments. The unofficial “tenants” my dad had let stay there over the years have the run of the place; I’ve heard that they’ve already begun selling off his more valuable possessions (there aren’t many) like his TV. And I can’t do anything about it because Hawaii’s tenant laws allow any old person to establish residency in a home by spending a few nights somewhere. Seriously! Crash at someone’s house for a weekend and it’s suddenly your place! I will have to formally evict people who never paid a month’s rent from my dad’s home, as they sell off belongings I can’t even prove are his. It’s a nightmare. Keep reading »
This is Dan Toombs, but you might know him as The Curry Guy, because every single night for the past year, he’s made his family dinner using curry. Chicken korma, tandoori masala, and less traditional recipes like currywurst and curry-spiced turkey Christmas turkey, you name it–if it involves curry, he’s probably cooked it. As soon as I heard about this story, it brought me back to my own childhood, and the questionable dinners (butter sandwiches, anyone?) my dad used to make over and over again. I thought it might be interesting to poll the other Frisky staffers about their parents’ cooking habits, and if there were any particular meals they really hated growing up. Check out our stories after the jump, and please share your own in the comments! Keep reading »
Amy Poehler’s “Ask Amy” advice series is never not amazing and this week’s segment on how to deal with your parents is no different. Even though “Ask Amy” is for teenaged girls, Poehler’s super-smart advice works for daughters of any age … including those of us in the “why aren’t you married and giving me grandchildren?” years. She seems like an awesome human being and an awesome mom. I can’t be the only one who wants her to adopt me, right? [YouTube]
I grew up in the ‘80s on a tree-lined neighborhood that skirted the edge of New Haven, Connecticut. Nobody really traveled down my short street unless they lived there or were visiting, and my family was friendly with all of our neighbors. With a backyard that was mostly brambling bushes and trees, I spent the majority of my childhood playing right out in front of my house, alternating between frolicking in the garden (much to my mother’s chagrin) or biking up and down the sidewalks with friends. A good portion of that outside time was spent with friends, by myself, or with my younger brother in tow, but mostly unsupervised by adults. Sure, my mom stuck her head out every now and again, and a neighbor was never far off. But the majority of my outside play was independent and unstructured. Keep reading »
Growing up, I was never given any restrictions regarding whether or not I could wear makeup, or how much makeup I was allowed to wear. My parents, who are admittedly pretty laissez faire by most standards, are also the type to choose their battles, and what I put on my face was just not one of them. I expressed interest in products from a hilariously young age — home videos show me at five talking extensively about my mother’s fancy body wash like a regular Suri Cruise — and for all but a few grease-filled tweenage years, I’ve been beauty-crazed ever since. That’s why I find it so difficult to fathom why mothers, particularly those under the relentless and unforgiving eye of the media spotlight, receive so much flack for letting their young daughters wear a little bit of makeup. Keep reading »