The Mean Mom

Happy Xmas 2011!

2011-12-25T07:11:00.002-06:00

You've shopped and you've cooked and cleaned up the crap

you've waited in a long line just to sit on Santa's lap.

You've planned all the meals and decorated a tree

you've sent out the cards, wishing postage was free.

The cookies have been baked, the stockings are full

and the youngest kids are wondering if they only got coal.

And because nothing is perfect, there will still be screams and tears

and that's when you remember...

sometimes vodka is the only way to find Christmas cheer.

Merry Christmas! And if no one else tells you today... the food was great, the gifts were perfect, you obviously worked your ass off, no you don't drink too much, your outfit is amazing and thanks for everything.

Cookie Chaos

2011-12-22T06:59:00.009-06:00

It recently occurred to me that while I write about eating, potato chips, drinking and cleaning the kitchen, I never write about actual cooking. Clarification... I have written about cooking, but only in regards to: A) that I don't love to do it; B) I don't spend hours pouring over cookbooks and dreaming about the next magical meal I'm going to whip up; C) that my kids are semi-picky eaters in regards to texture, cheesiness, sauciness, and spiciness; and D) Christmas cookies.

For eleven months out of the year, my cookie baking skills consist of a handy plastic package of pre-made cookie dough purchased in the dairy section. In addition to this being due to the fact that I'm almost always too lazy to haul the stand mixer out and I'm too anal to have the bulky space hog sitting on my counter year round, it's also due to the fact that the only reason I ever make cookies is because my kids want them. And even though my kids want them, they do not need to have five dozen cookies sitting in the house because, inevitably, four dozen of them will go uneaten. For me - having softened butter and creamed the butter and mixed the butter with the dry ingredients and then watched this butter mixture morph into something besides a burnt cookie - chucking those stale little suckers into the garbage can makes me, well, despise baking. And it makes me resentful. And who needs to be resentful about baking when, as parents, we have so many other things to be resentful about?

Anyway, each December, something happens to my brain that I'm sure most psychologists would put into the same classification as Bat Shit Insanity. I start hoarding butter and sugar when it's on sale, dig through recipes and clear a day on my calendar so that I can spend several hours standing in my kitchen.

This year, after several muttered (and a few shouted) obscenities, yards of parchment paper and too may sticks of butter to acknowledge without dry heaving, I ended up with approximately 22 dozen cookies. After Thursday, when I bake the sugar and gingerbread, there will be what is commonly known in the baking world as a fuck ton of cookies. But hey, I have some appreciative friends, a satisfied mailman, a perplexed garbage man and some happy children so, ya know, it was worth it. I guess.

Since I, the non-baker, managed to crank out so many circles of fat without even so much as over-browning one bottom or giving anyone food poisoning, I've decided to share some of my cookie baking tips. If you want to incorporate them into your own holiday baking extravaganza, feel free. If you want me to go burn in a fiery hell because I'm not supposed to talk about anything besides drinking and beating children, I completely understand.

HOLIDAY COOKIE BAKING WITH

THE MEAN MOM

IN WICH COCKTAILS ARE CONSUMED

AND NO BURNS ARE SUSTAINED

Buy and use parchment paper. I buy mine at Costco because you get several football field lengths for not that much money. Use it on every pan, even the ones that claim to be nonstick because then not only will your cookies look better in the end, but you won't have to wash any pans.
Another bonus of parchment paper: you can just slide the whole paper off of the pan, directly onto the cooling rack. No more trying to wedge a spatula under a too-warm cookie, resulting in a destroyed/deformed cookie.
For those of you that own Silpat/silicone baking mats, do what I did and STOP USING THEM. They are a pain in the ass to wash, no pan ever created fits them exactly without either wasted space and/or the mat lopping over the edges and did I mention that they're a pain in the ass?
If you don't have a palm tree in your yard and can't wear shorts year round, the fastest way to cool the cookie sheets between batches is to put them outside.
I use the insulated cookie sheets, but have also used the edgeless non-insulated kind. It really is a matter of preference and keep in mind that cookies baked on the non-insulated sheets will have browner edges and bottoms. Also, I am convinced that the burn-rate is much higher for the non-insulated.
This may sound a lot like Martha and for that I apologize, but I never make drop cookies without a spring-lever scoop. It's like a mini ice cream scoop and it makes plopping that lump of dough so much easier. Plus, all your cookies will be the same size and if you're anal like me, you get a little bit neurotic if all your cookies aren't the same size.
Unless you happen to own 25 cooling racks, cover a giant flat surface with freezer paper, waxy side down. Then, once your cookies have cooled on the parchment paper, move them to the freezer paper to finish setting (especially important when making the always-popular peanut butter/Hershey's Kiss cookies). The waxy surface will prevent any grease/butter/fat from soaking through to the table.
Don't frost the sugar cookies too soon before Christmas because storing them is a pain in the ass.
This is common sense, but if you need to chill some dough for three hours, make that dough first and then move it to a different bowl to chill so that your mixer bowl is free to make something else. Otherwise you'll just spend those three hours sitting around, during which you may start cocktailing, which will result in some really interesting cookies and probably a few burns (no, I'm not talking about the cookies). Since I am still staring at a scar from a Thanksgiving mishap, I am very much against charred flesh.
If you see the peppermint candy cane Hershey's Kisses, buy two bags. They sell out fast. And if you aren't able to find them, then you won't be able to make these:

Candy Cane Kiss Cookies

1/2 c. butter-flavored shortening

1/2 c. butter, softened

1 c. brown sugar

1 c. white sugar

2 eggs

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. baking soda

1/2 tsp. salt

2 1/2 c. flower, spooned and leveled

1/4 c. + 2 Tbsp. unsweetened cocoa powder

1 - 12 oz. bag dark chocolate chips

a bag of Hershey's Candy Cane Kisses, unwrapped (duh)

Preheat oven to 350

Cream together butter, shortening, brown sugar and white sugar for 1-2 minutes on medium-high speed or until light and fluffy, aka the stuff is stuck together enough that it stops flying out of the mixer bowl. Add the eggs (one at a time) and vanilla. Meanwhile, in a separate bowl, use a whisk to combine the baking powder, baking soda, salt, flour and cocoa powder. Add to the butter/sugar glop and mix until combined. At this point, if you're like me and don't like chocolate, try not to gag. Mix in the chocolate chips.

Refrigerate dough for 30-60 minutes. Make a drink.

Drop the dough by the tablespoonful onto an ungreased baking sheet, aka parchment paper lined cookie sheet. Bake until just set, but centers are still soft, about 9 minutes. Remove from oven without burning yourself and allow to cool for 1-2 minutes. Use a metal spatula to move cookies to cooling rack, or, since you were super smart and used the parchment paper, simply slide the entire piece of paper to the cooling rack and then put the cookie sheet outside to cool. Top each cookie with a candy cane thing.

This is critical, allow to cool completely. Those Kisses take longer than an 82 year old man to harden. After the cookie part seems like you can pick it up without it breaking, you can carefully move it from the cooling rack to the paper covered table, but try not to bump the Kiss. Unless you're like my kid who intentionally bumps it and then says "oops this one is wrecked guess I better just eat it."

Serve the cookies. Make another drink.

And happy holidays.

Culturally Clueless

2011-12-15T11:36:00.005-06:00

Hi, my name is Jody. After being adopted and then spending the first few years of my life in the giant metropolis of Wadena, I grew up in Forest Lake, Minnesota. I like cheeseburgers, Irish pubs, Belgian beer, reubens, some seafood, bacon, pizza and pretty much anything that involves potatoes. I do not like Greek food, uncooked meat, chocolate, large quantities of condiments and anything that involves the cooking terms "reduction" or "foam."

And although, technically speaking, I am from South Korea, I hate - as in loathe, despise, detest, abhor, recoil and run away from - Korean food. (except for maybe those beef things on a stick that are saturated in some sort of super sweet sticky sauce stuff. I mean, I've never actually consumed one, but at least the smell doesn't make me want to hurl.) I also don't speak Korean, don't know the names of any major Korean streets, am not familiar with the type of currency used in the country and couldn't give you the names of any political leaders.

When I see someone sitting near me that I have no idea who they are or where they're from or where they live, I have never ever considered striking up a conversation with the opening line of "So, what is your background? What is your culture? Do you eat the native food? Can you speak the language?" So maybe this may come across as being overly sensitive but seriously, why is it that, in this diverse generation when there are ASIANS EVERYWHERE, some people feel the need to strike up this kind of conversation with me? And why can't they immediately figure out that maybe they should just shut the fuck up and go sit far, far away from me and maybe ask that other dude why he's wearing lederhosen?

I am accustomed to always getting mistaken for someone else (coincidentally, it's always an Asian girl that they swear looks just like me), but there are some times when I kind of get caught off guard. Like when that one dude asked me if my daughter could sing in Chinese, or if my boys are good at math, and hey I MUST know a great recipe for Asian lettuce wraps and, while I was grocery shopping, "do I know where the egg roll wrappers are?" One guy actually said "Hey, let me guess where you're from because I've spent some time overseas and am pretty good at telling you guys apart now. So, hmmm, you're... Japanese!"

Yesterday, though, was one of the most bizarre conversations I've ever had to tolerate and since I admit that I was kind of rude in answering this moron's whole "where are you from" line of questioning, all I can say is... DUDE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Setting: The health club, where I am trying to get Zoe switched from school clothes/shoes to tennis clothes/shoes in a matter of minutes. Moron piped up when Zoe was sitting on the floor, digging through her tennis bag for her water bottle and shoes.

Moron: I just have to ask, where are you from?

Me: Forest Lake

Moron: No, like, where are you from? Culturally?

Me: Forest Lake, but currently in the suburb of Maple Grove

Moron: No, like, where are you fffrrrruuuuuuum.

Me: (trying not to laugh) Oh you mean where I'm fffrrrruuuuuum. Well, that would be South Korea.

Moron: HAH! I knew it! I knew you weren't Chinese! I knew it was Korean! See, I spent a few years over there, working and such, and I thought you looked like them, and then I saw how your daughter was sitting and that told me that for SURE she was from Korea because that's how little Korean girls sit.

Me: (blink blink blinkety blink) Oh, that's weird. Seriously, super weird. But anyway, Zoe is a halfsie. She's half Korean, but her other half is a mishmash of a bunch of non-Asian countries and a generous sprinkling of geek. But that's neat, that Korean girls sit. On the floor.

Moron: So, can we talk?

Me: Isn't that what we're doing?

Moron: No, I mean, can we talk? In Korean?

Me: You can talk, but if it's okay I'll just reply with things like "Hola, margarita, por favor."

Moron: You don't speak Korean? But you're from Korea?

Me: Well, yeah, but there's this really funky new thing called 'adoption' and stuff, and, um, seriously? Is really happening?

Moron: Do you remember that cool place on the river...

Me: Dude, I know no landmarks. Except the spoon on the cherry sculpture.

Moron: Oh, where's that?

Me: Downtown Minneapolis.

Moron: Oh I see. So what area of South Korea are you from?

Me: That area where they were abandoning babies in the early 70's.

Moron: Hmm, yeah, I wasn't there in the 70's. I was there in the early 90's. For work. I worked there for a few years.

Me: Super neat.

Moron: Yes, it was. I'm so surprised that you don't speak the language. Well, it's been nice talking with you!

Me: Definitely interesting.

I am not shitting you. This conversation is almost word for word. I wish I would've recorded it.

Where are your shoes?

2011-11-02T10:30:00.004-05:00

Today is Wednesday which, for me, means that I'm periodically checking the computer and waiting for one of my kid's tennis tournament draws to be posted. I don't remember the last time I've experienced a Wednesday without having to go through this suspense, but I'm guessing it was maybe two weeks ago, when the tournament director was really on top of things and posted the draws on Tuesday afternoon instead of making us all wait until Wednesday.

These draws tell me several things:

Who my kid will be playing;
The time that I'll have to get up, aka ass-crack of dawn;
Whose parents I will have to tolerate for three days;
If I will have to pack our cooler with breakfast, lunch, dinner or my all time favorite, a combination of all three; and
The amount of time I'll have between matches to drive to ______ to purchase ______ for the sum of $____. This is infinitely irritating because ______ should have been packed in the tennis bag but was forgotten at home, even though I reminded someone _____ times to CHECK YOUR BAG AND MAKE SURE YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED!

Like shoes, for example. Shoes are a good thing to have when you're playing tennis. So I've heard.

At the end of July, we experienced a week of tennis that will be forever known as the Barely Controlled Week of Chaos in Which My Family Was Spread Across the Midwest. This week involved Zach flying to Kalamazoo, MI for one national tournament, my husband and I driving Charlie and one of his friends to Omaha for a different national tournament, and Zoe and the dog staying home with my holy-shit-what-did-we-get-ourselves-into-this-time parents. As you can imagine, planning and packing and preparing for a week like this required a little bit of forethought (AND THREW ME INTO CONTROL FREAK BLISS!) and I'm happy to say that nothing was forgotten (HOLY SHIT I TOTALLY KICKED ASS!) Or, clarification, nothing that I was responsible for was forgotten. (BECAUSE, LIKE I SAID, I KICKED ASS!)

The night before we were leaving, while I was triple checking my lists and piling bags up by the door, I gave both boys their lists and told them several times to check their tennis bags, make sure everything is in there and oh yeah, make sure everything is in there. Charlie was all yeah yeah, got it, it's all there, oh wait I need to grab my shoes, hey cool this is what it feels like to have ADHD because I CAN'T FOCUS ON ANYTHING BECAUSE I'M SO FREAKING EXCITED and oh yeah, I was about to grab my sho -------

The drive to Omaha; uneventful. Zach's flight to Kalamazoo; uneventful. The parents staying with the dog and girl; bark barkity bark growl hey old man don't fucking move from that chair bark bark.

After we arrived in Omaha (which is chock full of stoplights that are mostly red) and checked into our swanky hotel, we headed to the courts for tourney registration (here's your t-shirt and bag of shit), parent meeting (don't be a bunch of assholes and embarrass your kids) and a brief practice session. Oh, and did I mention that Omaha in July, in addition to smelling a little like manure, is also hot? Like, hot. And a little humid. But mostly just really, really fucking hot. So after schlepping stuff from the car and listening to some nutrition lady drone on and on about the importance of hydration, I had a pretty good filmy glaze accumulating on every surface of my body and that glaze did not put me in the mood to hear these words: "What did you do with my shoes?"

Let me repeat, in case you missed it the first time because I sure as hell did when I first heard it: What. Did you do. With. My. Shoes.

First of all, what? The fuck? Why would I do anything with your shoes, CHILD!? And did I not nag you 38 times less than 24 hours ago to get your shit together, including your shoes?

Sure enough, there were no shoes. After pulling everything out of that tennis bag that is just slightly smaller than the trunk of most sedans, no court shoes were discovered. What I did discover, however, is that my forehead can sweat A LOT and I can gnash my teeth and mutter swear words so that they're only audible to a certain individual and when that individual hears that gnashing and swearing, their forehead also starts to sweat.

I wiped the sweat off my hands so that I could text my parents to see if there were, in fact, a pair of blue Adidas court shoes sitting in the back closet, just waiting to be shoved into a tennis bag. And while I knew that the answer was going to be yes, I didn't need to receive the text that I did: "We'll have to check later. We're at your brother's house right now, eating burgers and swimming." Okay, then, thanks a lot, hope you get a sunburn.

At that moment, I was kind of at a loss as to what I should do. Obviously I needed to get the kid some shoes because there was no way in hell I was going to default him from five days of matches, but I also needed to make him suffer in some way. Putting thumbtacks into the soles of the new shoes seemed a bit extreme, as did breaking off his thumbs. And that's when, as my kid stood at the fence and watched all of his friends on the courts, I started hearing the most wonderful sounds: Why aren't you hitting, Charlie? (I forgot my shoes). What? You forgot your shoes? At home? (Yes. At home.) How could you forget your shoes? (I dunno.) Ha ha! Did you really forget to bring your shoes? (Yes, I did.) Man, your mom must be mad! (Yes, she is.) Why isn't Charlie hitting? Dude, he forgot his shoes!

Punishment and suffering... check.

And now is when I shamelessly promote my iPhone. Thank you, iPhone, for promptly giving me the name, address and phone number of the nearest pro shop that sold court shoes in my kid's size. Thank you for providing a map so that I could drive directly to said pro shop which, conveniently, was just a few miles away. Thank you, also, for multitasking and allowing me to receive a text from my husband while I was searching for the nearest bar, a text that said "Just tell Charlie it's no big deal. I'll just drive the five hours back to Maple Grove and get his shoes for him." I love being married to a smart ass. A smart ass who also has an iPhone.

Once the shoes were bought (bonus: there was a coupon for this pro shop in the bag of shit that we received at registration) and on my kid's feet, he played his ass off, won a bunch of matches, had way too much fun and was forced to listen to me tell this story to anyone who said "Hey, Charlie got new shoes!"

When Zach heard about what had happened in Omaha, his reaction was exactly as I expected: Holy crap, mom must've been ticked. So you'd think that after watching his brother writhe with discomfort every time we left for a lesson or match and I'd say "Hey, does everyone have their shoes" with just a little less than a crap ton of sarcasm, he'd be super responsible about his own bag and always make sure he had his shit together. I mean, you'd think that, but you'd be wrong.

Over Labor Day weekend, both of the boys played in a tournament at the University of MN. Most of the matches started on Saturday, but Zach ended up with a Friday night match. As usual, I made sure to have the cooler packed (including a flask because it was, after all, a Friday night) and Zach was to have made sure that his bag was packed.

Well before it was time to leave, I found the giant child, sitting on a bench near our back door. Street shoes on, bag on his back, phone in his hand, brain half-way out of his head. I said "Hey, you know we aren't leaving for, like, at least 20 minutes" and he said "Ya, well, ya. K. I'll jus' wait." Since he ready with so much time to spare, I started patting myself on the back while thinking holy shit, man. This is kick ass! He is fired up to win this match! Chalk one up for me cuz all that nagging is paying off!

We drove half-an-hour, dealt with some traffic, found a parking spot amidst all the U-Hauls and Suburbans that were covering the U of M campus (it was move-in weekend) and walked to the tennis center. Just as we got to the door, Zach put his bag down, unzipped it and started channeling his brother: Where are my shoes?

Oh, ha ha hooo ha! That's a good one! Two times in one summer?! No way! Stop it! Seriously, STOP FUCKING WITH ME! Because you know if you were to have really forgot your shoes I would potentially HAVE TO KILL YOU!

Yes, he really did forget his shoes.
No, I didn't really kill him.
I need a bigger flask.

I quickly reviewed my options:

Default him from a match that he was sure to win, and be out the $55 tourney registration fee;
Drive home, in traffic, to get the shoes, which would probably result in him defaulting because he'd end up being late for his match;
Drive to a pro shop that was approximately 10 miles away, plunk down $110 for another pair of shoes, which would look really great sitting next to the other new pair of shoes that were already in the closet at home; or
Kill him, then go to the bar.

I know some of you are thinking I should have went with Option #1 (or even #4), but that approach wasn't going to happen. He knew I was mad (as indicated by the flailing arms, spinning head and the chants of "I'M SOOO MAD!"), he felt like a moron, and his dad had pulled out the most scathing of disciplinary words: he said his first and last name.

After spending a few extra seconds glaring at my kid who was wishing he had put his invisibility cloak in his bag, I decided to go with Option #3, stormed out the door and started quickly walking down the sidewalk to the car that was parked in the ramp in the spot that I had pre-paid $10 for. And that's when I remembered that maybe I wouldn't have to drive anywhere because they sold shoes at the U of M's tennis desk! I could just give them $110 in addition to the $55 registration fee that they already had! So, ya know, whoopee for me!

(For future reference: If you ever have the opportunity to throw a shoebox at your kid while he's bent over and tying the shoes that were just in said box, do it. It's really, very cathartic.)

Since then, several more tournaments have been played and several more lessons have been attended and I'm happy to report that so far, no more shoes have been forgotten. Now, if only I could say the same thing about the hats and water bottles.

I'm not fat! I'm just a big asshole!

2011-09-22T11:05:00.002-05:00

There are several reasons why I enjoy having a cocktail (or two, or whatever) at the end of a day:

Things went exceptionally well and I would like to celebrate the wellness before it goes away. Because we all know that very, very soon, things will most likely be unwell.
Things were a little bumpy but hey, the kids are finally locked in their rooms and tomorrow is a new day.
The weather just screams "whiskey!"
The weather just screams "vodka!"
From the moment the alarm clock went off, or actually from ten minutes before the alarm went off, the day was like a pair of rusty pruning shears, jabbing me in the brain. In the same spot, over and over and over again. Until the spot became a festering boil that could only be soothed with booze.

Wednesday was one of those days. Not the awesome day, or even the slightly bumpy day. I had a day filled with jabs. And although each event and irritation may not seem like much, together they added up to something that made me want to scream. And since some of you have a low tolerance for monotony, I'll just summarize the bulk of the day by saying it included a lot of unappreciated meals, misplaced items, exposure to stupidity and missed social outings. If, however, you want more details, you can read about my day here. Otherwise, you can skip reading about all the bullshit and get to the creme de la creme.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

One of the things that I love about the club where my kids play tennis is that they have a designated area for ping pong. This super accessible area is just out of my sight, which means not only do I not have to witness the chaos, I don't have to listen to it, either. Unfortunately, though, I kind of wish I'd been able to see and hear the most recent chaos.

After their lesson and while they're waiting for their sister's lesson to finish, the boys usually head off with their friends to play ping pong, and Wednesday night was no different. The only difference with this last Wednesday night is that there were a couple younger boys (who play hockey, not tennis) that wanted to play. Since my boys know these kids, they were more than happy to include them. So when Charlie walked back to where I was sitting, in tears and holding his elbow, I was like "how in the hell do you hurt yourself playing ping pong?" Well, this is how:

Charlie was playing ping pong with Twin A or, more accurately, Charlie was beating Twin A at ping pong. In the process of losing, Twin A gets angrier and angrier. After he loses, Twin A walks over to my kid, stands directly in front of him and aggressively argues about the score. Charlie says "Fine, you lost 9-11, not 8-11. Whatever." and walks away. As he's walking away, Twin A runs at my kid and body slams him against the wall, holding him there. My kid says "Hey, you're 10 and I'm 13, but you're a lot bigger than me (no joke - the kid probably has 40 pounds on Charlie) so don't do that. Get OFF!" Upon hearing this, Twin A lets him go and immediately decides that he heard my kid say "Hey, dude, you're fat. And you're fat. And did you know you're fat? Wow, you're fat! Get off of me because you know what? YOU'RE FAT!" After Twin A backs up, Charlie removes himself from the wall and walks away, only to be nailed in the right elbow by a flying ping pong paddle that Twin A decided to throw at him. After hurling the paddle, Twin A runs off to find his mommy.

Then the fun times really got rollin'.

Since I know the parents of these twins, I say "Hey, Blondie, what just happened here, and why is my kid's elbow swelling up?" Twin A is now seated next to his mom and immediately cues up the always successful waterworks and "Well, he called me fat!" defensive combination, which should completely justify why he smashed another kid against a wall. Because according to Twin A, not only did Charlie call him fat while he was getting acquainted with the wall but he called him fat several times during their super friendly game of ping pong which, by the way, Twin A lost 8-11.

While I stood there with Charlie trying to figure out what the hell was going on, Blondie, and her blondish husband, included the following points in their son's defense:

He gets bullied a lot at school for being fat, so he's very sensitive about it.
He's very competitive and sometimes has a hard time controlling his anger.
They didn't see what happened so therefore they can't get involved.
They don't fight their kids' battles for them.
Kids will be kids.
Twin B says that yes, he heard Charlie call Twin A fat. Several times, in fact.
Maybe Charlie and Twin A should go out to the parking lot and finish the argument by fighting it out.
Boys will be boys.
They're sure Charlie's elbow will be fine (even though he has a tennis tournament this weekend), but their son is now suffering from emotional abuse.

And then, after I said "Well, Charlie, I guess you should be more careful about who you beat at ping pong," they left. Without apologizing and basically giving their son permission to shove another kid against a wall when he loses, they left.

After talking to my older son and another boy (who happens to be friends with both Charlie and Twin A) who witnessed the entire incident, and being assured by both of them that Charlie never called the kid fat, I handed my kid an ice pack for his elbow and headed to the front desk. There, I learned that children under 12 aren't supposed to be anywhere in the club without parental supervision and that there are surveillance cameras everywhere that will have the entire incident recorded. Oh, and we need to take a picture of that bruised arm so that we have something to attach to the report.

Seriously, if only they would have apologized...

The ugly details...

2011-09-22T11:00:00.001-05:00

You are reading this post because you are obviously:

Bored;
Enjoy reading about other people suffering;
Trying to figure out what I'm whining about;
You saw a lady standing in the grocery store, giving a death glare to a texting, gum-chomping cow that was blocking the entire aisle in the frozen food section and you're trying to figure out if it was really me (Yes, it was.); or, most likely it's because...
You are nice.

5:32am... I woke up, eight minutes before my alarm clock goes off. Or, more accurately, I woke up for the 6th time in the last two hours, but this time it wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep. And of course the first thing I thought of was "I'm tired as fuck," which was immediately followed by "No, really. Fuck. Tired as fuck." I pulled on my mom uniform (running shorts, long sleeve shirt, ponytail) and headed downstairs to dishwasher emptying/newspaper fetching/coffee making/dog feeding/breakfast making bliss.

6:00... Because I'm lame and would feel a little bit guilty if I were to sleep in while my oldest kids found their own breakfast and got themselves to the bus stop, I made something to eat for kid #1: scrambled eggs, bacon and toast with jelly. Upon seeing this hot, well-balanced first meal of the day, he said "Oh, well, there's no way I'm going to eat all this. If I eat those eggs I'll just feel uuuugggghgh." Because I hadn't ingested much caffeine yet, I only had enough energy to say "Fine. Eat whatever" instead of "Fine. Eat whatever and then I'll shove the rest of it up your nose." Note to self: Frosted Lucky Charms are magically delicious, and a bowl of cold cereal is a nutritious part of a well-balanced breakfast.

6:50... After kid #1 glared at me a few times and then stumbled out the door in time to catch the bus, kid #2 appeared for breakfast. Upon seeing his plate of freshly made scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, he muttered something like "I hope this doesn't make me sick" before taking a few very unenthusiastic bites. Note to self: A smack in the face is a nutritious part of a well-balanced breakfast.

7:45... After kid #2 left for the bus, kid #3 appeared for breakfast. Upon seeing her plate of freshly made scrambled eggs, bacon and a muffin, she declared the eggs as "too hot to eat" and proceeded to eat the muffin. Note to self: Aruba is very nice this time of year.

9:10... Several hours (well, technically only an hour or so, but it felt like several) later, and after a couple dozen pleas of "get dressed, brush your teeth, practice piano, pack your backpack, brush your teeth, where are your socks," I dropped kid #3 off at school and headed to the grocery store, still wearing my running shorts, shirt, ponytail plus two additional items: a fancy lip balm called Carmex and a baseball hat.

9:30... Do you have any lettuce that doesn't look like it's been sitting in a monsoon? Oh, ha ha, I know it looks that way but no, I haven't worked out this morning. You seem to be out of the mild Italian sausage that is on sale, so can I substitute a different brand? Oh, hi, wow, yes, you do sound very busy! I don't care if that's the coupon item, that ham tastes like cardboard. Excuse me, but can I get past your cart? No, I need the 10.5 oz box of Cheez-Its because that's what's listed on your stupid coupon. Do you have a gallon of 1% milk that doesn't expire in two days? No, ma'am, I'm not that Chinese lady that taught your daughter how to ice skate. Gawd, do I ever love grocery shopping, especially with coupons!

10:30... Because I'm lame, I went to a second grocery store (yes, Byerly's) where they have the most amazing chicken tenders, which happened to be BOGO, and since I have to bring dinner to tennis for the boys on Wednesdays I thought I'd be nice and make sandwiches with these chicken tenders. And of course I also made sure to get fresh buns for these sandwiches. Because I'm lame. Oh, and also according to more than a couple people, now that the kids are in school I have ALL KINDS OF TIME TO MYSELF SO I CAN SHOP ALL THE TIME!

11:15... Finally home, just in time to finish the laundry, clean part of the house, put the groceries away, walk the dog and inhale some lunch. And then I need to brush and floss my teeth so that I can get to my dentist appointment! It's really super important to be on time to the dentist! So I'm sure to be punctual and get there five minutes early because, in addition to being lame, I just loooove going to the dentist! Mmm, gotta love that dentist office smell!

1:35... Twenty minutes after my appointment was scheduled -- after I was assured that the hygienist was running on time -- I'm sitting in the waiting room, thinking about the 142 things I still need to get done. So I did what I've always wanted to do: told them to cancel my appointment and then walked out. And anyway, I had just flossed and brushed in the middle of the day, so my teeth already felt cleaner than usual.

2:30... Kid #1 walks in the door, followed by... his friend? The friend who wasn't supposed to ride the bus to our house and is instead supposed to be at his own house, waiting for his mom to pick him up. So now I have an extra kid (who happens to have the loudest voice ever given to a teenage boy) in my house for the next hour, and he's hungry. Like, really hungry. And really loud.

3:10... Kid #2 walks in the door, gets ready for tennis, and then immediately walks out the door. Their ride arrived... over ten minutes early. Goodbye, loud talker!

3:45... I walk out the door carrying a cooler packed with dinner (yum, chicken sandwiches!), kid #3's tennis bag and my tote bag so that I can pick the youngest kid up at the elementary school, aka Parking Lot of Torture. Today is no different, and I somehow resist honking and/or gesturing toward five different people, including one dude that nearly ran over a child because he should have the right to go the wrong way on a one-way.

5:30... After arriving at the club, quickly feeding kid #3, sending her to her tennis lesson and then (because I still have my running shorts on) hammering out a three mile walk/run, the boys wrap up their tennis lesson and appear for dinner. I pull out the sandwiches and, five minutes into eating them, kid #1 declares them "a pain in the butt to eat because the bread is too chewy." Note to self: Stop feeding children anything besides gruel and knuckle sandwiches.

Add to all of this the smooshing of my child, the fact that no one else in my family has the ability to recognize when the recycling bin is full, children that are still genuinely shocked that bedtime arrives each and every night, a dog that wants in when he's out and out when he's in, a school I.D. that was distributed to a child and lost by the child on the same day and finally, the worst part of all: I was supposed to go out with friends. But by 9:00, I really didn't have the energy to be all high maintenance and get myself dressed in anything besides pajamas, so I skipped out on the cathartic fun and stayed home. I know this makes me sound even lamer, but at that moment, just having enough energy to brush my teeth was doubtful. I figured that would be okay, though, because after all, I had already brushed them twice.

The Great MN Let's ALL Get Together

2011-09-07T07:30:00.003-05:00

As we've done in years past, Doug and I celebrated our wedding anniversary at the MN State Fair. The difference this year, though, was that while I was at the Fair with five children, Doug chose to celebrate our anniversary by himself. At home. Not surrounded, as I was, by what seemed to be the entire population of Minnesota as they simultaneously ambled, smoked and cursed around me, grazing on cheese curds, fried candy bars, corn and about 1802 other things. And while this may sound like a not very romantic way to spend a day celebrating our love, let me tell you that if he would have joined me this year, I guarantee he would have been arrested for violently assaulting a slow walker, I would have had to swing by jail on the way home to bail him out, and that's not very romantic, either.

Since my boys are both equipped with phones and are old enough to experience this day of sensory overload by themselves, they were turned loose (with friends) for a couple hours, which left just Zoe (in her wagon) and I to go wherever we wanted to. And we would have went wherever we wanted to if it weren't for the fact that approximately three million people were in our way. Seriously. Three million. I fucking counted each and every one of them, and I am not exaggerating when I say that I was tempted to count some of them twice. So as I weaved and bobbed my way through crowded intersections, "accidentally" running over a set of toes here and "oopsie, did I just bash you in the shin with my wagon" there, all I could think about was holy shit, dude, I am sooo glad that Doug is not here because he would be Miz. Rah. Bull.

Because of this arrangement, I was the only one available to be Designated Wagon Puller. And since I needed to drink beer (obviously), that left me with zero hands to take pictures. That is, until I figured out that I could prop the front tire of the wagon next to my foot and hold the beer (which always seemed to be half-empty) with my teeth. This allowed me to take pictures with one hand and reach into the wagon for a spring roll with the other. Multitasking at it's finest, really.

Even with this arrangement, though, I missed some incredible photo ops. Fair do's, immense human beings, fanny packs, tube tops -- by the time I had stopped the wagon and clenched the beer glass in my teeth -- all of these amazing sights had whipped by and out of frame. So, I'm sorry for what I failed to capture, but hope you enjoy the shots that I did manage to get.

Just in case you thought that I was exaggerating and/or making excuses as to why I missed some pictures, this is approximately 1/2000th of the crowd. Now, see that lady in the pink shirt? I think I knicked her toes with my wagon.

But even as crowded as it was, I can't believe that I still managed to find Brett Favre.

There is an area of the Fair called the International Bazaar where you'll find all kinds of non-Minnesotan foods and useless crap for sale. When we got there, there was a mariachi band playing (which immediately made me crave a margarita) and a bunch of people eating tamales. So why, exactly, did I see a dude wearing a beret? More importantly, why would a dude ever wear a beret?

This is obviously a couple in love. And I wonder if the tattoo on her back was complimentary when she paid to have the jeans tattooed on her thighs.

It's a good thing this kid's mom is so smart, demonstrated by the fact that she tied the balloon to his wrist. There's nothing worse than paying good money for a balloon only to have it fly away within minutes of ownership. Now, if only she could find him a black and white shirt to match his wig/hat/moron badge...

Hey, maybe she can ask these guys where they got their's.

Normally I don't post/email/share any pictures until after I get home, but this one I immediately texted to my husband with a subject line of "You can't make this shit up."

For all you single fellas, one of the most popular places to pick up hot chicks at the Grandstand is at the personal massager/ massage chair booth. If you're lucky, you'll find someone wearing a sexy pair of flesh colored capris. And yes, she's willing to take pictures.

Show me a two-headed man, I won't stare. Show me a kid with full facial hair, I won't stare. Show me a kid on a leash, I will always stare.

Like I said... I will ALWAYS stare. And the best thing about this master was that right after I took this pic, she unhooked the leash and said "You're going potty now" to which the little doggy said "No ruff ruff I don't have to go potty." So of course she said "Yes you do, so let's go potty" to which the puppy said "Noooooo! I don't want to goooooo!" So at least we know that the leash isn't because the nice owner has a control issue or anything.

I'll bet that when this guy found out that he won something from the MN State Lottery, he had no idea that it would be this piece of shit ladybug backpack thing. And then when he found out that it was the backpack, he had no idea that he would be the one to end up carrying the stupid thing around for the rest of the day.

I swear I saw his wife smirking.

This guy is taking his visit to the Alpaca booth just a bit too seriously. And I would bet money that he ate the overpriced alligator on a stick. Hell, I bet he wrestled the alligator before he ate it.

Right before we left, one of my kid's friends yelled "Gross Jody! That guy just hurled on the street!" and sure enough I was stupid enough to turn my head and see a giant puddle of fresh barf. And then, like the sickos that we are, we waited around to see if anyone was clueless enough to walk through the barf bog so that we could laugh and I stood there hoping like hell that this chick would show up.

In addition to seeing Brett Favre, I also saw Pat Benatar.

I was trying to get a picture of that guy's mullet, and then as if on cue, these two women wandered into the frame. I literally threw my arms into the air and yelled "Holy shit! You have GOT to be kidding me!"

Quote from my husband: "This guy was skinny when he got to the Fair."

This woman doesn't look that bad, right? I mean, black is a slimming color and the top is sort of a flattering cut. So why would I bother taking this picture?

Because of the back view.

In all the years that I've seen cargo shorts in existence, I've never actually seen anyone put them to actual cargo use. My kid is the one who spotted this guy, and at first he thought they were boxes of cigarettes. I think his actual words were "Check it out, mom. That guy sure is prepared for a full day of smokin' at the fair!" This assumption makes sense, too, since everyone in his group - along with 82% of the other Fair attendees - was smoking. I was just secondhand smoking.

She's so lucky that this was the day before Labor Day, otherwise that white skirt/leggings combo would have been a major fashion faux pas.

At the International Bazaar, there was a booth that was a combination of rug seller and fancy braider. My first thought was "who the fuck buys a big ass rug at the State Fair?" which was immediately followed by "Who the fuck gets their hair braided all fancy at the State Fair?" Well, right after I saw some dude walking around carrying a big ass rug, I saw these braids.

Seriously, people, can you imagine touching some stranger's greasy State Fair hair for an extended amount of time? Just to put in some stupid braid!? Gross...

In 1986, there were some god awful ugly "leather" purses for sale in the International Bazaar. In 2011, there are still some god awful ugly "leather" purses for sale in the International Bazaar. In fact, they're probably the same purses.

In case you're wondering, this guy likes Sturgis. And insanely blue Levis. And motorcycles. But he hates sleeves. And even though he probably loves the Minnesota State Fair, I'll bet he didn't take any pictures.

Stupid catnip scented lotion

2011-08-18T20:29:00.003-05:00

So, for anyone that is a Facebook fan, or that checks this blog with any sort of regularity (ie, more than once every other month), you'd know that I haven't written any new blog posts for a long, long time. Like, I've scheduled a couple Brazilian waxes, went through 74 pounds of sliced turkey and driven 9,875 miles since my last post.

And while this post isn't going to be very lengthy, it'll at least get you caught up to what's currently going on in my world.

I'm supposed to leave - with the rest of my family - for a vacation on Saturday. No, we aren't flying anywhere on non-refundable tickets that cost thousands of dollars, we don't have our Passports packed away in our carry-ons, but we are renting a pretty kick ass house, on a lake, with a refrigerator, and a bed. A very big, plush, bed that I am planning on sleeping in for several thousand hours.

So as you may or may not know, something fucked up always happens to someone in this family in the few days prior to leaving for a trip. Illnesses, injured appendages, oil spills, hell... I wouldn't be surprised if a sudden meteor shower was forecasted for northern Minnesota next week. But, to my surprise, everyone has remained healthy and tanned and chipper and the forecast for next week is for temps in the high 70's and more sunshine than clouds. So what could possibly happen in the 72 hours before I back the beer and potato chip-packed minivan out of the driveway?

Since I like to phrase things more creatively than "I got bit by a cat. It hurts. I am sad. It hurts." I am instead going to share with you a short email thread. The woman who is inquiring as to the status of my fish-stick flavored leg is, coincidentally, the mom of the boy whose leg got chomped on by the neighbor's dog. But before you start jumping to conclusions and think "what the fuck suburban psycho is training all of it's animals to attack moms and children?" please be informed that this is not the same neighbor. The dog owner neighbor is obviously insane and doesn't like to claim responsibility for anything other than positive experiences. The cat owner neighbor is being very sympathetic, willing to pay for my wonderful, giant antibiotics, coming over to mow my lawn, and is probably going to kill that fucking cat. That cat that I hate so very fucking much.

Oh, and owie.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

At 7:48 PM, LH wrote:

Hey thank you for the picture...and what happened at urgent care? Did they quarantine you?

At 8:27 PM, JA wrote:

OH I am SOOOOOO happy! I can't believe you didn't hear my dance of jubilation as I jumped into the air and clicked my heels together!

NOT!

Since the cat bit me not once, not twice, but three times, and since the location of the feline buffet is on the same leg that I had my ankle reconstruction surgery on, I am EXTRA susceptible to an infection forming. Ie, it started forming when the cat was hissing.

Sooo...I am on antibiotics the size of a small child, twice a day for ten days, and these antibiotics will probably make me crap my pants and/or hurl. And the most awesomest part is that these antibiotics may not even work, since the infection started forming yesterday, probably while I was bleeding all over my sheets.

If it doesn't improve within the next two days, or if red lines start shooting outward from the puncture site, or if my fever goes any higher THAN IT ALREADY IS, or if the holes start shooting pus to Arkansas, THEN I get to cancel my vacation and check myself into an extra fancy place called the Haus Pit Aul, where instead of martinis, I will be hooked up to iv antibiotics.

So that's what happened at Urgent Care.

On the bright side, the cat owners are going to cut my grass tomorrow and again before I get home from the vacation that, at this point, I would rather amputate my fucking leg than cancel.

But it's a rescue dog!

2011-06-12T08:00:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I think that socially, there couldn't be anything worse in the world than my cul de sac located in the middle of suburban taupe-land or, more specifically, a couple neighbors that ruin life for the rest of us. Between the guy who's ass seems to be stuck to his lawnmower while his hand is permanently glued to the pressure washer that always seems to be pointed at his car, and the house that over the years has morphed into a frat house disguised as a stucco two-story walkout, my little circle of asphalt is a never ending cornucopia o' fun that should win the Mine is Bigger/Cleaner/More Expensive/Louder/More Pregnant/ Dysfunctional Award. So you can imagine my surprise when another cul de sac, located a short New Balance Easytone stride to the west, become a contender for this coveted award that I thought we were so close to claiming.

Maybe you remember about a month ago, the lady with the blonde hair that's cut to resemble a rugby helmet, lecturing me about my inability to make an appearance at Honors Night. Well, not only does she live in this cul de sac up the street from me and I occasionally see her while she's walking her two useless, yippy Yorkshire terriers, but there is a family right next door to her that also owns a Yorkie. This Yorkie happens to be a rescue dog and was acquired about a year ago by this Look At Us Rescuing A Dog From The Perils of Euthanasia family. And by the way, did I mention that it's a rescue dog? Yes, they rescued it. Because it needed rescuing. And they feel strongly about adopting rescue dogs. Cuz rescue dogs need to be saved. By them. Because they're good people that like to rescue dogs.

The first time I met this rescue dog, it growled at my dog. My then less-than-eight pound wussy schnoodle, oxymoronically named "Danger," who wanted nothing from other dogs other than to not be growled at. So when I say "it growled at my dog," I don't mean that it gave a little "get your nose out of my ass" warning gurgle, I mean it growled. And pulled it's lip up a little as to try to appear like Sylvester Stallone in Rambo. So basically, when I first met this rescue dog, I was not impressed. And if I were to be honest, I thought it was a little bizarre looking, and not in an oh it's so bizarre it's actually kind of cute way. But maybe, with time, the dog would be able to change my mind, or at the very least get it's hair cut in a different way so as to not appear like a freak. Who knows, it could even acquire a few of the characteristics that I'd been told most rescue dogs possess -- submissive, playful, obedient, grateful and loving. Please note, dick-headish is not on this list.

Fast forward about a year. I have not seen this dog since they rescued the thing, and I'd heard through neighborhood chatter that it was still in existence and it was indeed being viewed as a successful rescue. Bravo, well done, and would you look at that there's another family that ensured it's members won't go to hell.

So when I sent Charlie and one of his buddy's down to the rescue dog's house to retrieve Charlie's violin (long story with numerous, very boring details that I will only repeat to someone that invites me over for a play date and insists on engaging in small talk), I didn't think they were ambling into a House of Harm where Cujo's wiry haired idiot-faced cousin happened to live after he was rescued. I definitely wasn't expecting them to return home saying "Yeah, I got my violin" followed by an "Oh and by the way, rescue dog bit Sam. Right here. On the leg."

It was Friday. I was thirsty. I had just returned from my oldest kid's all-day sectional tennis tournament. I'm pretty sure I was going to make a drink, had just pulled the tonic out of the fridge and was about to hack up a lime. But believe me when I say the words "a dog bit my friend" do not mix well with the sound of ice.

I looked at his leg, did a little bit of a gagging sound and reached for the phone. On the bright side, there wasn't any blood dripping on my floor and this made me especially happy because "Oh look there's blood all over the floor" is #2 on the list of buzz kill phrases right after "a dog bit my friend."

I found the phone number for Mrs. Dog Rescuer and waited for her to answer. And then I peed my pants a little bit because I realized I was very inexperienced in making this kind of call and what do I say anyway? Do I engage her in a little bit of small talk - hi, how are you, how's life at private school, is your teenage daughter pregnant or is that just a trend in my cul de sac - or do I just cut the crap and get right to the point, which is your rescue dog just mistook a boy's calf for a Beggin' Strip.

I chose a combination of both approaches, sort of a "hi" and then a "I have some bizarre news for you" wam bam you shouldn't have rescued this dog ma'am. And then I waited for her reaction. And it's not like I was expecting to hear her crash her car or smash her head into her computer monitor or anything, I was just anticipating a "Holy shit, that's horrible, how's the kid, give me his mom's name and phone number, I'll notify the police, has he been to the doctor, please send me any medical expenses" kind of normal human being whose rescue dog just bit a child kind of reaction. Instead, I got "Hmmm, that's odd."

Yes, she wanted to talk to the mom. But instead of asking me for their information (which obviously I could have provided since I told her where they live and that Sam plays tennis with Charlie), she instructed me to give the mom her name and phone number so that the mom could call her. And did it break the skin? Was it really a bite or just a knick? Was he taunted? Did they ring the doorbell? And on and on with the questions in an attempt to turn things around and make it seem like we should feel bad about the fact that Sam's leg was in the way of rescue dog's teeth just when he was about to let out a big bark.

Over the course of the weekend (which, conveniently for everyone, was a three-day holiday weekend), two messages were left on rescue dog family's voicemail, which of course were never received because rescue family was relaxing at their lake home for a few days. Whether they were sitting in the Adirondack chairs and thinking "wow that's so naughty that rescue dog attacked that child and boy oh boy we really should check on his well being or at the very least, provide a copy of his rabies certificate," we'll never know. All I do know is that Mrs. Rescue called me over the weekend with a "what's the big deal anyway" tone of voice and also complained about the fact that the voicemail messages left by Sam's parents sounded a little terse. At this point in the conversation, I wanted to blurt out "You're absolutely right! Why would they ever be upset? It's not like their child's leg was severed or anything! It was just a bite, right? Dog's bite children all the time!"

FUCKING MORON.

Fast forward about a week. The bruise created by the rescue dog had mostly healed, a sort of copy of the rabies tag had been provided, but rescue family had failed to file an official bite report with the police department. So, since my friend isn't exactly passive and is committed to doing the right thing (like protecting small children that live in my neighborhood from being bitten by a dog), she notified the police. This notification did not make rescue family happy. In their eyes, we were all supposed to chalk it up to a "rescue dogs will be rescue dogs" theory and forget it ever happened. We were supposed to feel bad for the dog because it had to endure a crappy first couple years of life so should be given a free pass or two when it accidentally bolted out the front door and attacked a kid's leg like it was a Slim Jim. We for sure weren't supposed to expect a couple of adults to act like mature dog owners and take responsibility for what happened, no matter how unpleasant the outcome might be. I mean, seriously people! You have to understand that they RESCUED A DOG! THEY ARE THE VICTIM!

So now, rescue dog has a record. What this means - besides making rescue family's kid feel like he has the right to be a complete A-hole to my kid on the bus - I'm not quite sure, but I have a feeling I'll find out after I dress Sam up in an outfit made of bacon and corned beef, let him walk back and forth in front of their house and then, just as the dog is about to attack, I'll swoop in and save him. Ah, who the hell am I kidding. I won't need to waste all that perfectly good cured meat because all he really needs to do to get bit is ring the doorbell.

And if you're wondering what the bite looked like right after it occurred:

Basically, (other people's) kids suck

2011-05-20T09:55:00.005-05:00

I've used this blog to rip on my kids, pick on lazy people, vent about inconsiderate morons, complain about school projects and talk about my hatred of people that insist on texting/eating sloppy joes/putting on make-up/watching Days of Our Lives while driving. Today, however, is best summed up as... other people's children kind of suck.

As you may or may not know, my seventh grader, who is twelve, plays tennis. My ninth grader and soon-to-be seven-year-old also play tennis, but this blog isn't about them. It's about my twelve-year-old.

Now, this kid doesn't just play tennis. He plays tennis. Among his accomplishments:

Selected by the USTA to attend two camps at the USTA National Training Center in Carson, CA.
Ranked in the top eight for 12-and-under in the USTA Northern section, which includes Minnesota, western Wisconsin, and eastern North and South Dakota.
Is a 3-star recruit on TennisRecruiting.net
Currently playing 3rd singles for the high school varsity. He is the only 7th grader on the team.

During his first season of high school tennis, he has a 16-3 record. Over the past few weeks, he has pulled a win out of close three set matches, beating seniors and team captains along the way. He loves being on the tennis court, and loves the team he's playing on.

Today (if it doesn't rain) is the semifinal sectional match, which is kind of a big deal. Since this is tennis - not football - the amount of school spirit directed towards the team isn't exactly overwhelming. So, in an attempt to let the school body know that "hey by the way, the high school tennis team is pretty damn good this year," all of the boys are wearing their uniforms (white shorts, maroon Dri-Fit shirt, tall black socks) to school today. And of course they just had a match yesterday afternoon, which meant that I quickly did a couple loads of laundry last night so that everything would be ready for this morning.

But Charlie didn't want to wear his uniform to school.

Because he was so sure that he was going to get laughed at by a certain group of kids. Or, in his words, "They're totally going to make fun of me and won't care. They'll just think I'm stupid."

I know kids are mean and that they say things to other kids without thinking first -- this will never change, and there's nothing I can do about it. But right now, I'm pissed off, I hate the fact that my kid is being made to feel bad about something he's good at and passionate about and, if you happen to hear about a zit-faced seventh grader that got nailed in the side of the head by a Babolat racquet, I didn't do it.

It was probably my kid, after I gave him permission.

Thank you, now kiss my ass

2011-05-05T08:54:00.005-05:00

With just over a month left of this school year, I can safely say that A) the last day can't come soon enough, B) science teachers that also happen to be Atheist have an interesting teaching style, C) there are a lot of clueless parents out there, and D) I'm sick of being in my car. Or, to be more specific, I'm sick of being in my fucking car, listening to my kid tell me about how it's his science teacher's goal to fail everyone in the class "to make a statement," only to deal with stupid ass annoying parents as soon as I get out of my car.

Since there are at least three days out of the week where I look at my calendar and discover that I'm supposed to be in at least two different places at exactly the same time, I have had to suck it up and occasionally ask other people to give my kids a ride. After recent events, however, there is one family in particular that will never again be responsible for getting my kid from point A to point B.

Toward the end of every school year, in addition to the dozens of choir and orchestra concerts, the junior high hosts an Honors Night, recognizing those students that have maintained an "I'm not a moron" GPA for the majority of the year. This convention of smugness has always been held on a Monday evening, which coincidentally is the same evening that my kids have piano lessons. And high school tennis matches. And homework that needs to be completed in order to maintain the GPA that got their asses invited to the Honors Night to begin with. So since we have always had conflicts and my piano teacher seems to be as inflexible as a landscaping paver when it comes to canceling lessons, and even though my kids have always received the "Please Attend..." postcard, I've never made it a very big priority to attend this thing.

Both of my boys are on the varsity tennis team and last Monday (Honors Night) they both had fairly difficult matches that went to third sets. As I sat in just-below-40-degrees-not-including-the-wind temperatures, trying to say something more encouraging than "I'm freezing my ass off here so end this thing already!" and mourning the loss of feeling in my toes, I watched as their matches moved along and the time got later and later. When the last points were finally played, I realized that there was no way in hell that anyone was going to make it to their piano lesson and was instantly relieved that I had never even considered trying to make it to Honors Night. And then, as soon as I got in the car, Zach said "Okay, so I'm going to Honors Night. It's my last year at the junior high and I want to see what the thing is. Will you drop me off?"

I said fine, but I'm not staying (even though I know that every other parent would be there). And by the way if you see anyone there that lives within two miles of us, ask them if you can get a ride home. After all, I was planning on putting myself into a calorie coma with the beef stew that was waiting for me in a crock pot, so as far as I was concerned, making an unplanned drive back to the junior high was on my list of things to do, right after "Feed self to flesh eating zombies."

Fortunately, my kid found someone to ride home with and I was overcome with joy. And I didn't even experience too much guilt since these people live a whopping 1/10th of a mile away. But, like a good neighbor, I made a mental note to make sure and thank them for driving that extra tenth of a mile next time I saw them.

As luck would have it, both of us were back at the junior high on Wednesday night for a concert and sure enough, we bumped into each other. I said "Hey thanks for giving my kid a ride home on Monday night! My evening was chaos so I really appreciate it." And then, instead of just saying no problem, I got a fucking eye roll from her. And then a mini-lecture about how she couldn't believe I just dropped him off and didn't stay, and that they have a busy schedule too but some things should be viewed as a priority. And, well, to each their own but she makes her boys go to Honors Night because she's really proud of them and everyone should see that they got good grades and were invited.

And here's where I could have launched into a "do you know where the fuck I just drove from and what I just sat through" lecture, but it would have been pointless. I could have explained that FYI, just because I thought about driving to the bar as soon as I dropped my kid off at the front door of the school, it doesn't mean I actually followed through with it. (After all, I had my dog on my lap and the last time I checked, they still don't allow dogs in the bar.) And by the way, stupid wench, I already know my kids are smart. I certainly don't need to waste a Monday night standing around a school cafeteria, gnawing on a crappy cookie, to reassure myself of that fact.

Turns out that my kid only stayed at Honors Night for about 15 minutes after I dropped him off and as he ate his dinner, he filled me in on the details: he picked up a certificate, stood around, ate a couple crappy cookies and told people that wondered where I was that "she didn't want to come because she thinks it's pointless." So now I am beaming with pride because not only am I raising a smart kid, but I'm raising an honest kid, too!

Garage Sales, Plot Lines & Tantrums

2011-04-18T08:47:00.005-05:00

Every spring our Neighborhood Leader (whoever the hell that is) looks at the weather forecast, picks out a weekend when the temperature won't rise above 40 degrees, the winds will howl and precipitation will most surely fall, and schedules a Neighborhood Garbage Sale. I have participated in this sale exactly one time -- approximately seven years ago -- and am still recovering. I will never forget the annoyance I felt at the people showing up approximately eight hours before the published start time, shouting "Would it be okay if we just poked around in there and had a look around?" from their car windows and angrily driving away when my answer was "FUCK NO!" The worst, though, was when the sale officially started and I had to helplessly stand in my garage while hoards of people stumbled toward me like zombies, hell bent on messing up my perfectly folded piles of clothes in search of a great deal on a pair of khaki shorts sized for a 6-9 month old. And the answer is no, I will not knock $0.50 off those shorts within the first ten minutes of my sale.

So this year is no different. I am not going to spend three days freezing my ass off while sitting in my garage in order to participate in the Neighborhood Garbage Sale, watching rusted out vans and rented U-Hauls park awkwardly in my cul de sac. Besides, it seems like the shoppers spend more time eyeing all of the things in my possession that don't have a price sticker on them than actually sifting through the crap that I actually am trying to get rid of.

Over the last few weeks, I have been doing my a-little-more-frequently-than-quarterly purge of closets, drawers, storage bins, cabinets and anything else that contains things that we own. After a trip or two to the recycling center, strategic use of the space in my garbage can and more than a few passes through the Goodwill drop off lane, I can sleep at night. So even if I was going through a moment of insanity and actually wanted to participate in this year's Garbage Sale, I wouldn't have anything to sell anyway. Or, would I?

Recently, while having some new wiring installed in our house, I discovered a few bins of some toys that the kids refuse to part with, but aren't played with very often: marble runs, a train set, and a giant fucking plastic ship that is home to some really hideous plastic super heroes. Would it be weird of me to open my garage door, place three bins of toys and one plastic ship in my driveway and then close up shop as soon as the shit sold?

And then I remembered something: I can't sell the plastic ship because Doug and Zoe have a history with it. They have spent hours playing together, coming up with story lines involving its assorted cast of characters, the names of which I wasn't familiar with until I read this don't-read-if-you-have-anything-in-your-mouth-cuz-it-will-shoot-out-your-nose story, written by Doug, aka Married to The Mean Mom.

Zoe, Angry Goddess of Death

The great thing about playing with Zoe is that she is easy going and doesn't try to boss me around. Okay, she does have opinions, but that's just because she likes things to be done a certain way. And while, yes, the way in which she likes things to be done can best be described as Zoe's Way or Fuck you, she's really quite reasonable about it -- she merely demands that everything unfold according to a detailed script she's written in her head, otherwise feet will be stomped, teeth will be gnashed, hands will be placed on hips and eyes will be glared. Also, there will be shouting. Nothing too extreme, really, but you can expect your ears to bleed a bit. Again, she's not bossy so much as she's just a fan of, say, Mussolini. Or Sauron.

Like most kids her age she can also be quite imaginative. Imaginative in the sense that any adult playing with her will not have the slightest freaking clue what in the holy hell is going on. I have a bit of an advantage here in that, as Jody will attest, I am not an adult. So when Giraffey and Baby Mazagordon are having tea and their brains start shooting out of their butts because they ate too much throwup lasterday, I can see the logic in that and appreciate the narrative structure she is building.

The problem is, Zoe and I don't always agree on character development or crucial plot points. For example, why would Giraffey run over Baby Mazagordon repeatedly with a dump truck and then feed what's left of her to the sharks? It seemed out of character to me, given Giraffey's history of placid grass eating and song singing. Ever since that incident I've had a difficult time playing the giraffe because I don't understand her motivation. I realize that Zoe's trying to make Giraffey more three-dimensional by giving her contradictory personality traits, but I guess serial-killing herbivore just doesn't work for me.

This was a minor incident, however, when compared to the Super Mission Guys debacle, which is alternatively referred to as "That Time of Which We Do Not Speak."

Zoe and I have had creative differences before but nothing that couldn't be resolved with a little screaming and throwing of things, followed by Jody reminding me that I was supposed to be the more mature one here. But this time was different. This wasn't a simple case of using the wrong inflection or going all Charlton Heston on my role. This was me going so far off script that Zoe began to seriously consider replacing me with the understudy -- mom. The same mom who doesn't understand how King Bruno the dinosaur can give birth to porcupines and forgets that Pepperina the polar bear speaks with a Jamaican accent, mon.

Perhaps it happened because we'd invested so much time and energy into developing the complex characters and rich mythology that make up the Super Mission Guys. They are an elite fighting force led by a gorilla named Hoo Hoo Jungle. Hoo Hoo is unique among his kind in that he has a retractable grappling hook and a backpack -- just the sort of things one needs to repeatedly save the world -- or small, helpless dogs, depending on the mission -- from certain destruction. Hoo Hoo's second in command is the taciturn yet loquacious HAMMER DUDE! His name must always be spoken just as I have typed it -- with all caps and an exclamation point. As it turns out, HAMMER DUDE! was aptly named by his parents because he now wields a gigantic hammer. I suspect that his choice of weaponry and his insistence on shouting his name is because he is compensating for something, but I've never been able to work this into the script.

There are many other members of The Super Mission Guys but its exact makeup varies from day to day depending on who has been called away on international espionage assignments and who is lost in a closet or under a couch somewhere.

I play the part of HAMMER DUDE! Zoe plays the part of everyone else. What follows is a transcript of the final episode of the Super Mission Guys, exactly as performed.

Super Mission Guys

Episode #278

EXT. SUPER MISSION SHIP - DAY

THE SUPER MISSION GUYS HAVE GATHERED ABOARD THE DECK OF THE SUPER MISSION SHIP, AWAITING ORDERS FROM THEIR MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR, THE RICH AND POWERFUL BOX DAY.

HOO HOO JUNGLE

Shut up, everyone! Box Day will be calling soon! Does everyone have their new shoes on?

EVERYONE

Yes sir!

Splashy the Dolphin leaps out of the water and accidentally knocks Hoo Hoo Jungle into the ocean. Hoo Hoo drowns.

HAMMER DUDE!

Oh no! Hoo Hoo is dead!

EVERYONE

Oh no! Aaaaagh! Crap! etc.

HAMMER DUDE!

This is a job for HAMMER D--

SPRAY MAN

No! No, it isn't! Don't say that!

HAMMER DUDE!

But I want to be the one to save--

SPRAY MAN

Stop it! Stop talking! Spray Man fixes dead people, not HAMMER DUDE!

Spray man sprays his spraying device into Hoo Hoo Jungle's face. Hoo Hoo stirs. He is alive!

HOO HOO JUNGLE

(coughing) Splashy! Stop killing me! Bad dolphin!

EVERYONE

Bad Splashy! No! Stop it! etc.

SPLASHY

(whimpers)

Amidst the commotion, a mustachioed man appears on the Mission TV Screen. This is BOX DAY.

BOX DAY

Attention, people! Stop being like this! You have to pay attention when you get the missions!

HAMMER DUDE!

Yes! Quiet down every--

BOX DAY

Stop talking, I said! Guy with the hammer - what is your name?

HAMMER DUDE!

Uh, Hammer Dude?

BOX DAY

No it isn't! It's HAMMER DUDE!!!!! You are the worst Super Mission Guy ever!

HAMMER DUDE!

But sir, I--

Box Day covers his ears.

BOX DAY

Lah lah lah lah lah! I'm not listening! Lah lah lah lah lah! I can't hear you!

HAMMER DUDE!

...I...

BOX DAY

Here is your mission: Stop the spaceship that is attacking the world! But watch out for its bombs that will kill you for a week and the eggs it shoots that will make you all messy!

HAMMER DUDE! looks off across the Pacific toward the last rays of a setting sun, a melancholia settling over him like--

BOX DAY

HAMMER DUDE! You are wearing the wrong shoes!

HAMMER DUDE!

I...wha?

HOO HOO JUNGLE

I told him, sir! He is a horrible Mission Guy!

BOX DAY

Oh, and one more thing: After your mission you get to go to the ice cream shop.

EVERYONE

Yes! Yay! Awesome! etc.

BOX DAY

Except for HAMMER DUDE! because he is doing it wrong! Good luck, everyone. Make sure you be alive.

HAMMER DUDE! marches to the front of the group and strikes his giant hammer on the deck of the ship.

HAMMER DUDE!

Stop telling me what to say, Zoe!

HOO HOO JUNGLE

Zoe? Who's Zoe? My name is Hoo Hoo Jungle!

GREEK CHORUS

Oh look, the spaceship has shot its bombs at HAMMER DUDE!

HAMMER DUDE!

No, wait! Um...HAMMER DUDE! hammers the bombs back at the--

GREEK CHORUS

No he doesn't! They explode in his mouth! He can't talk ever again!

HAMMER DUDE!

No, they missed me! Now I will talk even more!

HOO HOO JUNGLE

HAMMER DUDE! has turned evil! Everyone kill him!

The entire Super Mission Guys team attacks HAMMER DUDE! and some Star Wars characters join in. As does a wooden train, some Lincoln Logs, a Simon Says and an empty juice box.

And then a mysterious giant hand appears and throws HAMMER DUDE! across the ocean.

HOO HOO JUNGLE

HAMMER DUDE! is dead forever! He can never come back and he can't talk anymore!

HAMMER DUDE! comes running back across the ocean.

HAMMER DUDE!

Hi guys, I'm back! I feel fine! And Box Day put me in charge of the Super Mission Guys!

There is a horrible screaming sound so terrible that it rips a hole in the fabric of reality. Through the hole steps ZOE, an angry, vengeful goddess. She kills everyone.

THE END

For the next few days Zoe and I played Uno. Uno has a very clearly defined set of rules. There is no room for debate or interpretation. I made sure to follow every one of them, especially the last one which is written in crayon on the rule sheet. It states: "Always let Zoe win."

Dammit! I Missed My Exit!

2011-03-18T08:47:00.008-05:00

This may come as a shock to some of you, but I like to do nice things for people. A lot of times I even manage to do these good deeds without instantly mumbling things like "Yeah, you better say thank you" or "Sure, pathetic loser, I'll hold the door for you while you slowly amble through it while talking on your phone." My niceties have varied from simple things like picking up a dropped item at the grocery store for a person that appears as limber as a 2 X 4 to baking cookies for someone "just because" or even cleaning a friend's house and delivering dinner because I knew she had been really, really busy. And while I never expect to receive favors or cookies in return, I know that no matter how busy things get, true friends make certain relationships a priority and always manage to find even the smallest amount of time for each other. Or, at least, I thought I knew this but boy oh boy was I wrong and let's just say that lately there have definitely been a whole lot of cookies that haven't been given out but that's a whole different blog.

About a week ago, we went out of town for a tennis tournament. This involved a small amount of packing, planning and preparation and allowed my control-freak self to swing into action. But just as I was making the packing list on my mental dry erase board, Charlie cautiously informed me that he was going to pack his own clothes because there were certain tennis shirts he wanted to bring and he was sure that I would screw it up. Normally, relinquishing any control whatsoever makes me stammer when I speak and break into a sweat. But since we were only going to be gone for one weekend, I figured maybe this would be the perfect time to let the boy do the math and figure out how many pairs of socks to bring.

Turns out, he brought enough socks. He even remembered to pack underwear and pants. Unfortunately, though, he didn't remember to bring pajamas. And while this wouldn't have been a huge deal had we been going on vacation, it was a huge deal this particular weekend because we were at a tennis tourney so therefore weren't staying in a hotel that featured Egyptian cotton sheets on it's list of amenities. In fact, I think if I were to have read the fine print, it would have described the bedding as "Minnesota's finest 60 grit sheets."

After spending one night exfoliating all the skin off of his legs, we headed to Target in pursuit of some pajama pants. Or, at least I would have went to Target if I hadn't missed my exit. And I certainly would have just taken the next exit, waited at several sets of stoplights and went back to the Target exit if Zoe hadn't just said the dreaded words "I have to go to the bathroom." So while I normally don't acknowledge the existence of a Wal-Mart, I saw this one because it was right there and I knew that I only needed two things: pajama pants and a bathroom. As soon as I parked, though, I instantly regretted not telling Zoe that she would just have to hold it a little longer.

While Charlie waited for us and people watched, Zoe and I sprinted into the bathroom with one goal in mind: Don't. Touch. Anything. And then I felt like I was on a game show, trying to pick the one stall that wouldn't make me dry-heave. Stall #1 was out of the equation because it suffered from a combination of Bad Aim/Failure to Flush, Stall #2 was occupied, the handicapped stall was available and that extra elbow room is always so hard to resist, but Stall #3 was also a contender. Or so I thought.

Although the door to Stall #3 was ajar, it was very much occupied. Like, really oh my holy shit you can't even believe how occupied it was. A fairly voluminous elderly woman who, from what my olfactory senses told me, had forgotten she was lactose intolerant so therefore ate an entire Dairy Queen ice cream cake and four grilled cheese sandwiches and maybe a cheese ball right before she came to Wal-Mart, was sitting in Stall #3. With the door open. So that's it, we're taking the handicapped stall. And why Mrs. AARP Digestive Disturbance wasn't in there herself, I'm not quite sure.

As soon as Zoe was done with her business, she stuck her leg in the air, flushed with her foot (oh my god I was so proud!), I opened the door with my elbow and we were both about to make a beeline for the sinks. But then someone started talking to me. Someone in Stall #3.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but can you help me stand up? These stalls are just too narrow and I can't seem to find anything to hold on to. I can't even turn around. Do you have a minute?"

Seriously, people! What the fuck was I supposed to do? My kid is standing right there, pinching her nose and waiting to see if I'm going to be a good person or a candidate for Hell. There was no way I could have walked out of that bathroom knowing that I just left a poop-covered helpless old lady sitting on the toilet! Besides, I figured she had been in there a long time so obviously had figured out a way to maneuver her, um, panties to a location other than around her ankles (I would be wrong). After all, it's not like she said "Can you help me wipe my ass and then pull up my underwear, and while you're at it come over to my apartment, make me an egg salad sandwich and program my VCR?" All she wanted to know was "Can I grip your arm with both of my unwashed hands without traumatizing you for life?"

When we finally walked out of the bathroom, Charlie was standing there with his arms in the air and a "What the hell took you so long?" expression on his face, and all I could do was give him a "Don't ask. Just, don't ask." shake of the head. I did manage to say one thing, though: "Don't touch my arm."

A Neverending Winter

2011-03-04T08:40:00.006-06:00

I remember a time in my life when I actually looked forward to the month of February. Coincidentally, this was also about the time that I didn't have my own driveway to shovel during a what-the-fuck-how-much-snow-can-possibly-fall winter, didn't mind having birthdays and definitely didn't have other people's illnesses creep up just in time to destroy happy hour plans.

February is only 28 days long, and February of 2011 will officially go down in the record books as the month known as Sucktastic Cough Cough Cough Science Project Plowhump. Seriously, it was that bad.

When I say that Zoe has been coughing for 30 days straight, I am not exaggerating. I swear the girl has coughed up her entire body weight X 3 in phlegm, has mastered the turn-and-hack-into-elbow maneuver as to not freak out other individuals, and has even been spotted carrying around an item that has been labeled Coughing Towel.

In addition to her having pneumonia the first week of the month, she has managed to wake up with a short-lived low-grade fever every Saturday morning (which, as a result, obliterated every Saturday night happy hour), I managed to acquire two colds within three weeks and Charlie got strep throat for the first time in his life (which, contrary to what he believed would be the outcome, he managed to survive). Our evenings, in addition to the usual yelling and shouting and assorted sounds of chaos, now include the appetizing sounds of sniffling and coughing and gag-reflex-triggering. It's all a little much, and pretty fucking gross.

Since those who know me well know that my house isn't exactly at risk for being featured on Hoarders and that I've been known to smell of a perfume best described as a combination of Clorox and Pledge, it makes me wonder where all this illness is coming from. I know there is a lot of shit going around and everyone knows someone that is or has been sick recently, but come on! This family does NOT get sick!

I knew that Zach wasn't the carrier, since he has actually managed to dodge the phlegm/strep-fest. It couldn't possibly be Doug because considering how much time he has spent at the office or quarantined in his office at home work work working, he isn't around any of us long enough to actually breathe the same air or lick any doorknobs. My colds always appeared after Zoe had them first and Charlie had strep throat after me, so this narrowed it down to the shortest member of our family. But seriously, the girl's hands are cracking because she washes them so often, so how much could she possibly be bringing into the house?

A couple weeks ago, during a brief time when the temperature crept above 45 degrees and some of this 627 feet of accumulated snow was forced into melting, I took our dog on a walk. It was a slushy, gross, stinky, sometimes slippery walk but still, it was exercise performed outdoors.

Without intending to, I ended up near the elementary school at the exact time that Zoe would be outside at recess. Since she had declared the day before as The Worse Day of Recess in the History of Recess, I decided to stop by with the dog and surprise her, hopefully turning that day into the Best Day of Recess EVER! Sure enough, as soon as I walked up with the dog, she threw her arms into the air with joy and was so excited that I was there. And I brought THE DOG! And all of the other snowpantsed, mittened, booted kids were excited to see THE DOG!

That was when THE DOG noticed all these children stumbling toward him and he started to feel fear. And let me tell you, he wasn't the only one.

The kids moved in a sort of skitterish, slow-mo, twitchy manner that was completely unpredictable. They formed a little mob scene around my poor dog, scaring the piss out of the poor thing, literally. I reached down and picked him up so that he was above most of the kids, but then they just closed in a little tighter and made noises similar to "Oooooh, a dawwwwwg, can I pet your dawwwwggg?"

The worst part about it is that they were all coughing. And I mean all of them were coughing. One boy said something like "Oh, that's (cough) a cute (coughity cough) dog I wish (hack hackity sneeze sputter) I had a dog like (cough) that (cough sniff cough) can I come over (cough hack) and play with Zoe's dog sometime? (cough cough)" Me: NO. And now I know why I'm sick. It's because of walking petri dishes like YOU!

But here's the best part...I don't know what the hell they served at lunch that day because my February lunch menu went into the recycling bin exactly five days ago, but I'm 99.9% sure it was stewed brains. It was clear that none of these kids know how to use a napkin, and that all of them (except Zoe, who had dined on a mom-made ham sandwich) had eaten this conglomeration of brains for lunch. I know this because the evidence was all over their faces, dried in a crusty red glaze around their mouths. Some of them even had a chunk or two up around their eyebrows, which made it really difficult to look them in the eye. So here I was, holding this cold, muddy, terrified white dog while a hoard of coughing, brain-dining children hovered around, all maneuvering in such a way that they could get close enough to me so that they could use their germ-covered hands to pet THE DOG!

And that was when I felt like Wichita in "Zombieland," being attacked by really short brain-eating zombies and just trying to make sure that me and my little dog got out of their alive and without any other diseases. And Zoe? Well, she would be one of the kids from a painting that hangs in her brother's bedroom because after all, she did have a pink shirt on that day:

Sometimes, I Trip

2011-02-07T10:37:00.005-06:00

I am going to take this opportunity to say that this past weekend, I was not the nicest person in the world. I tried, really I did. But due to circumstances that were a little bit out of my control, the niceness success rate was not quite 100%. It wasn't that I didn't try to suck it up and put on a smile, it's just that it all seemed so, well, pointless and unpleasant. Like trying to convince yourself that eating the fat free salad dressing isn't really that bad and that the bitter metallic taste isn't really that noticeable even though you know damn well that the full fat salad dressing isn't going to kill you, so what's the point of pretending that you like the fat free kind?

Okay, that was random.

So like I said, there isn't just one reason for my edginess, but rather a combination, an amalgamation if you will, of many different types of sticks to my eye.

Maybe it's because my week started out with a sick kid. Like, a freakishly-high-fever-three-nights-in-a-row, oh-look-she-has-pneumonia, now-she's-home-from-school-for-4 1/2-days sick kid.

Maybe it's because after being loyal to the same piano teacher for the past nine years and always delivering her check at the first lesson of the month, she was unwilling to compromise with me regarding her cancellation policy, even though I had a kid at home with a 104 fever.

Maybe it's because Doug got a chest cold and I ended up with the same chest cold and strep throat, just in time for the weekend.

Maybe it's because throughout the entire weekend, people still wanted me to make food for them (without touching it too much or coughing on it) and the only meal that was considered take-out was the single-serving cheese pizza that I bought for Zoe while we waited for my prescription at Target.

Maybe it's because my attempt at taking a ten-minute nap on Saturday before I drove Zoe to a birthday party was interrupted by a boy saying "Hey there's something wrong with my Xbox Live account, can you come fix it before you leave?"

After quickly glancing at the back of my throat while sitting at a stoplight and seeing what appeared to be a couple red ping pong balls with white polka dots, I decided that a visit to urgent care on my way home from the birthday party would be a good idea. Zoe thought that this was the perfect time to embark on a pain-in-the-ass marathon, touching everything in sight, failing to follow even the simplest directions, begging for 22,000 items in Target, and giving me a look that says "I'm going to do whatever the hell I want to do because you probably won't beat me in public." This super-pleasant two hours, followed up with a difficult bedtime, might have had something to do with my mood on Saturday evening.

It could even be that after waking up with a fever on Sunday morning, I fed the dog, got the paper, emptied the dishwasher, started laundry and made chili...while the rest of my family slept in.

Maybe it's because there's an elaborate board game that's been sitting out, taking up the entire surface of our wet bar, since November, and even though I've asked, on numerous occasions, that it be picked up and put away, it has continued to sit there. So when the oldest kid finds me coughing and sprawled out on my bed and says "Hey, should I pick that game up today?" and I say something like well, gee, I've only been asking for it to be picked up for the last month or so, so yes, picking it up today might be a good idea and then he says "Wow, sorry I asked. What's the big deal," it may not put me in the best frame of mind and/or make me leap around the room in jubilation.

Or maybe it's because when I quietly snuck upstairs in an attempt to take a nap on Sunday afternoon (between loads of laundry), I was immediately woke up with the pressing question of "Hey mom, can I have a juice box?"

So like I said before, I know there were times this weekend that I wasn't the nicest person and honestly, all I can say is...oops.

Married to the Mean Mom Has a Birthday

2011-01-31T06:54:00.007-06:00

Yay for today being my husband's birthday! Ideally, I would have loved to have been the kind of wonderful wife who plans an entire weekend of festivities based on birthday based fun fun fun, but since we live in reality and have these things called 'kids', not only did that not happen, but it's not going to happen today, either.

Good news: He had a lot of time to himself over the weekend to sleep in, read, play Xbox, workout and watch the Australian Open.

Bad news: He had a lot of time to himself because the kids and I were at a tennis tournament, which means that he had to play with the 24-hour play machine, also known as the puppy. Also, all time spent reading or playing a game was constantly interrupted by texts from me saying things like "Up 3-2, playing great, missing some forehands" or "please bail me out of jail after I kill a few of these moms." In addition, the kids and I knew the results of the men's and women's Australian Open finals, but because he managed to resist the urge to check the results, we couldn't even talk about the match while he watched it by himself. And sleeping in didn't really happen either because even though I tried to be quiet at 6:45 in the morning, I'm sure he heard me whispering "We are leaving in five minutes! Get your teeth brushed and your tennis bag packed NOW!"

Good news: He had Zoe home on Sunday to play with the dog and keep him company while I took the boys to their matches.

Bad news: Zoe woke up with a cough and a low fever, which meant that she spent the day on the couch, coughing and moaning about her low fever, but not really playing with the dog very much.

Good news: Zoe was feeling better last night so we went out to dinner to celebrate.

Bad news: Zoe felt better for the length of the car ride, after which she promptly declared herself as 'freezing to death' before her fever instantly spiked to 102. Mozzarella sticks eaten = one, which coincidentally is also the number of beers that each of us had.

Worse news: Like I said before, we each only had one beer! And he had to drive home so that I could hold fever girl in the car.

Good news: He had the whole bed to himself last night, with the door completely shut, and was able to get an uninterrupted night of sleep.

Bad news: He had the whole bed to himself last night because I was sleeping in Zoe's room, waking up every half-hour or so to hear her either cough coughity cough or talk in her sleep saying "sorry I'm really sorry oops did I do that I didn't mean to sorry." And it wasn't the fact that she was talking in her sleep that was freaking me out, it was that I didn't really know she was capable of saying the word 'sorry'. Anyway, since I managed to get about 2.6 hours of sleep last night, Doug may want to think twice before he opens that bedroom door and tries to communicate with me.

Good news: He took today off so that we could sleep in a little and we could see a Coen brothers movie.

Bad news: Zach managed to suffer from alarm clark user error AGAIN so I was whispering AGAIN, something like "oh my god I'm going to put that phone somewhere that you will never be able to not notice that alarm going off." Also, the boys don't have the motor skills necessary to shut the bathroom door without anything less than a sharp thunking sound. And even though Zoe took a break from the fever for a few hours last night, it has returned just in time for Monday morning. Which means that a bloody, obscenity-filled movie and fatty popcorn has now morphed into girl on couch, Buzz & Woody and Orville Redenbacher.

Good news: I'm going to make him something great for dinner today.

Bad news: I have no idea what that great thing is because since I was home for exactly 10 hours this weekend, we have nothing in the house that screams "the preparation and sauteeing of me will result in a delectable birthday dinner." We do, however, have something that says "Look at me, I'm a frozen pizza."

Worse news: Whatever I do end up whipping together will have to be eaten early, because the boys have a piano lesson tonight.

Good news: Like I said before, he took the day off from work and coincidentally, it snowed last night. Yay for not having to celebrate a birthday by sitting in two hours of morning traffic on a Monday morning!

Better news: I shoveled the driveway this morning.

Bad news: I now smell like I shoveled the driveway this morning, and for all of you that live in a cold, snowy climate and have spent any amount of time outdoors doing something besides standing still, you know what smell I'm talking about. And since Zoe is sick and will be expecting me to be her beck-and-call girl, who knows when I'll be able to find time for a shower.

Good news: I wrote a birthday blog for Doug last year, and hopefully if he reads it again, it'll make him feel happy enough to be able to forget about how potentially crappy this year's birthday could turn out to be.

In So Many Words

2011-01-26T09:07:00.005-06:00

Much to the dismay and occasional embarrassment of my boys, I enjoy spending time with, and talking to, the teenage girls that they play tennis with. It's interesting to hear what they're up to, find out what they've been shopping for and also be accessible to them in case they want to spill something to me that they don't necessarily want to discuss with their own mom. In addition, these ultra-competitive and athletic girls have been nothing but a great influence on Zoe and they're always excited to see her. So when I see them, we end up talking. And laughing. And talking some more. And all the while we try to ignore the groans and eye rolls that are always shot in our direction from the boys sitting nearby.

My boys cannot even begin to understand how I can tolerate the incessant yackity-yack-yack that comes out of these girls' mouths and I say hey, it's easy. After all, I once was -- and kind of still am -- one of those girls that goes on and on and on, explaining things in way too much detail than is necessary, driving Doug to insanity and making him wish that there was a different model number of me. One that came with a mute button. And skinnier calves. And better baking skills.

One of these chatter sessions occurred about a week ago and after this girl and I said our goodbye's and see-ya-later's and gave each other a goodbye hug, I got in the car to drive my boys home. This is when my oldest kid said something like "God, I didn't think you guys would ever stop talking! By the way, did ya know that someone proved that girls talk way more than boys but don't say anything interesting? Boys can say the same thing, using only a tenth of the words that a girl does!" I said yes, I know, and that's because boys talk like cavemen and girls know how to use adjectives. He just rolled his eyes at me, looked out the window and grunted something that sounded like "uuurrrggha."

Since then, I've tried to pay a little more attention to the differences between boy and girl conversations and the more I listened, the more I realized that my kid is right: boys are cavemen. For example:

Boy: (While pointing at friend) T-shirt.

Girl: Ooooh, I love that shirt! The fabric is sooo soft and I love the color! I love that there is a flower on the front and that there are sequins on the flower, too! Where did you get it? Do you think there are any left? I love shopping there they have, like, the cutest clothes! Cool t-shirt!

Boy: Hungry.

Girl: I'm, like, starving to death but I don't want to eat anything sticky or loaded with grease. I wish there was a Panera nearby so I could get a bagel. Oh, they have the best bagels ever. To die for, really. And the veggie cream cheese is my fave. What? You've never had it? You really need to go. So I don't know what I should eat right now. Maybe a piece of pizza would be okay.

Boy: Lotsa homework.

Girl: I cannot believe how much homework I have. Like, don't these teachers know that I have a life?! And that I don't want to spend, like, eight gazillion hours studying the countries of Africa!? Seriously, what do they think Google is for! At least I got these new pencils. Aren't they like the cutest thing ever? I just love them. Oh, and you won't believe what happened in Algebra today, it was the funniest thing ever!

Boy: Ugggh, brrrr.

Girl: It's soooo cold outside! And my lips are so chapped they're about to fall off of my face! And could my hair be more staticy? Seriously, oh my god! I don't think my fingers are ever going to be warm again! But look at these Ugg boots I just bought at Nordstrom! Aren't they, like, the cutest thing you've ever seen? And they were only, like, $200. I know, right? I should tell my mom I need them in another color, too, because they're just soooo cute!

Boy: Hey, I think I'm sick. My throat hurts when I swallow like this, and I feel cold, and my knees hurt but it's mostly my right knee, and sometimes my neck hurts when I turn my head like this, and my nose feels like it's getting stuffy but it's mostly my left nostril, and my head hurts right where my eyeballs are, and I'm hungry but I don't know what I should eat because chewing might hurt, and it hurts to swallow like this, and I'm pretty sure I'm getting a fever because my armpits feel warmer than usual, and (cough, cough) did you just hear that cough? Holy phlegmy! Oh god, I don't feel good.

Girl: Hi, I have a little bit of a cold, but I'll be okay. So do you want to go shopping?

Okay, so they're not always cavemen. Sometimes, like when they're sick, they're wusses too.

Musical Memories

2011-01-12T09:15:00.010-06:00

At one of the boys' recent piano recitals, we had to listen to another student play "The Entertainer." And unfortunately we weren't subjected to just the first and second sections, but it went back to the first, then the third, then the interlude, and then the fourth section, with repeats, and it just wouldn't end. And although we've had to sit through more than our fair share of excessively long recital pieces played by complete strangers, I'm pretty sure that sitting through "The Entertainer" can be found within the definition of cruel and unusual punishment.

The first time Zach ever said "Uuuugh, great, The Entertainer. Because, ya know, no one's ever heard that song before" I was kind of annoyed since, after all, that's my line. It seems like every kid (including me) at some point during their piano education is forced to learn this Joplin ragtime classic. All kids except mine, that is, because after I was asked to play this song no fewer than 2,783,824 times as a child, I'm pretty sure I would bolt out the front door and scream while running down the street if I heard that opening sequence of D-E-C A-B-G.

Seriously, every time I hear that song, I have flashbacks of hearing the dreaded "Hey Jody, head on down to the basement and play 'The Entertainer'." I would have gladly played something else, but my parents' friends always wanted to hear "The Entertainer," I suppose because it was familiar.

And while hearing "The Entertainer" happens to trigger the Pavlovian effect of sweaty palms, instant deafness and feelings of dread (I know this for a fact because yesterday while I was at Target, I heard the all too familiar first six notes being played on one of the demo keyboards and my palms started to sweat -- from four aisles away), there are several other songs that also trigger memories from my past:

"King of the Road" ... Roger Miller I was about six years old and had figured out how to use a turntable, but unfortunately didn't own any albums of my own. After finding this fine song buried in my parents' albums I listened to it over and over, and over again until I had the entire thing memorized. Unfortunately for everyone, there was no lip syncing and instead I sang at the top of my lungs while throwing in a finger snap here and there. What's amazing to me is that I distinctly remember singing this song and dancing around, but I've managed to forget about the part where my brothers are laughing at me, and most likely calling me a moron.

"Daddy Sang Bass" ... Oak Ridge Boys I don't think there was ever a time that I didn't hear this song while riding in the back of my dad's car. And every time it was on, one of my parents would say "Wow, would you listen to that bass! He can sing so low! That's really something." and I would think well, yeah, it's a song about a guy singing bass, and I think I've heard this song before. Like, yesterday.

"Another One Bites the Dust" ... Queen Ah, the days of roller skating. The carpeted walls, the bruised knees, the fact that I completely sucked so I never had skates of my own and always wore rentals. Shoot the duck!

"Everybody Wants to Rule the World" ... Tears for Fears Remember when cable TV came to your town and you were finally able to see what MTV was all about? And MTV, at that point, actually aired music videos but they only had, like, 36 minutes of programming that they'd air over and over again? Well, this song/video was in that 36 minutes and every time I hear it I think back to sitting in basement rec rooms.

"Xanadu"... Olivia Newton John One of the funniest karaoke duets I've ever seen, which made it totally worth lying about my birthdate to get into that bar.

"Sharp Dressed Man" ... ZZ Top I was lucky enough to have older brothers that didn't mind driving me around. They would bring me to gymnastics, let me hang out with their friends and even hauled me to a few parties. And they played their music LOUD while I sat in the seatbelt-less backseat, sliding back and forth on the red vinyl with every erratically taken left and right turn, singing "Every girl's crazy 'bout her sharp. Dressed. Man." Loud.

"Life's Been Good" ... Joe Walsh Lazy summer days during high school in Mark's backyard, playing volleyball, swimming in the pool, sitting in the hot tub, riding Waverunners, drinking umm...stuff.

"Careless Whispers" ... Wham! Easily the most awkward junior high dance to ever take place in the history of junior high dances.

"Rock and a Hard Place" ... Rolling Stones A guy asked me to go to this concert when I was a junior in high school and thinking that she'd for sure say no, I asked my mom if I could go. When she said yes, fine, go and have fun, she instantly became one of the coolest moms ever.

"Pour Some Sugar on Me" ... Def Leppard High school sports, specifically softball.

"Pictures of You" ... The Cure When Doug and I were first dating, it was an inevitability that at some point during the evening, we would hear this song.

"Dancing With Myself" ... Billy Idol And then there were the dates with Doug that we would drink a little, eat an entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, play a little Nerf basketball, and then dance around like idiots to Billy Idol.

"Kickstart My Heart" ... Motley Crue The concert in which my brother's (now ex-) girlfriend discovered that it's very risky to drink a wine cooler in the front seat of a car, especially when the driver decides to slam on the brakes, causing said wine cooler to spray all over the inside of the windshield and rendering it undrinkable. She also discovered that after heat is applied to the windshield, that shit isn't ever coming off, not even by licking it.

"Janie's Got a Gun" ... Aerosmith When you ask someone at a party if they want some Chex Mix and you are the one holding the ginormous bowl of Chex Mix, make sure that when they say "yes, I do" that they actually take a handful rather than what Steve did which was hit the bottom of the bowl as hard as he could, which caused the Chex Mix to rain down over a one-block area.

"You Shook Me All Night Long" ... AC/DC Two words: dancing baby. And in this case, the baby was Zach.

"Angel" ... Aerosmith Driving home after euthanizing our beagle, Baxter.

"You Are My Sunshine" ... various artists, but my favorite is Norman Blake This is the first song that Charlie learned how to sing. He used to sing it to Zoe when she was a baby.

"Ring of Fire" ... Johnny Cash Never again will I ever be able to hear this song without thinking about science projects. And what sucks the most is that my kid will always associate Johnny Cash with a school year that I'm pretty sure he's still recovering from. Seriously, this song came on while we were at a Twins game and he had to get up and leave our seats.

"Just the Way You Are" ... Bruno Mars So, Doug and I are driving somewhere together and this song comes on. I say wow, these lyrics are so familiar because you say the same things to me all the time. He's like what the hell are you talking about woman? This song sucks. I say no, no, just listen. You'll know what I mean.

"Her hair, her hair falls perfectly without her trying." Of course he laughs because at the moment, my hair is in a ponytail.
"When I see your face there's not a thing that I would change" which just induces more laughter, because unless he's blind, he can see that there's a giant zit trying to burst forth on my chin.
"Her nails, her nails I could kiss them all day if she'd let me." I'm sure he would kiss them, if he wanted to risk cutting his lip on one of my super hot hangnails, jagged edges and overgrown cuticles.
"Her laugh, her laugh she hates but I think it's so sexy." Ah yes, the laugh. The donkey meets hyperventilating clown meets megaphone meets occasional snorter meets rabid hyena meets girl. Sooo sexy.

At least the song finally came to an end so that he could stop laughing, catch his breath and focus on his driving. But from now on, every time I hear the delusional and cheesy lyrics of that stupid song, I'll have to pull over because it's hard to drive when you laugh like a donkey/clown/ megaphone/snorting/hyena-girl.

I Kind of Suck At This

2011-01-12T07:00:00.004-06:00

After reading some blog posts from the past, I realize that over the last year I've bitched and moaned on a pretty consistent basis about my kids' helplessness. I dream about the day that they are able to recognize a full garbage can, follow six-step directions without forgetting steps 2 - 5 and be able to keep track of when bedtime is approaching. The moment that they realize I can't be at home making something for dinner while simultaneously driving them around will certainly be a day for the record books. And what if -- seriously stretch the imagination here -- they were to ever figure out that they should get their shoes and coats on, without being told, five minutes before the time that we're supposed to leave!

Seriously, if I were ever to discover all three kids standing by the door with their shit ready to go at 11:28 after telling them that we're leaving at 11:30, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to drive to wherever it is that we were going because I'd be hyperventilating and suffering from shock. There are times that after seeing lifeless lumps on the couch or listening to a soon-to-turn-violent game of tabletop ping pong, I think hell no, man! Today is the day that I am NOT going to remind them to start getting ready! I am going to just put my coat on and walk out the door, and if they aren't ready, well then SCREW THEM! I'm leaving them behind! That'll teach them! And then, sure enough, as the time approaches, I cave in and shout a couple reminders, wait for them to get shoes on and then head out the door on time. Why do I do this? Well, because the piano lessons are kind of expensive so it would be pretty pointless to show up without the kids, and because I'm pathetic. And lately, I've taken advantage of the opportunity to be pathetic a lot.

Kid #1: I swear this kid's brain shuts off the moment he climbs out of bed in the morning. I say things like "Hey, do you want me to get some of those cookies you really like with the macadamia nuts in them" and all I get is a vacant stare and an "ummm, I've no idea what you're talkin' about. What cookeeeezzzz?" Every response and demand has a little extra uuuuhhhhhzzzzzz to it, with a sigh or four thrown in for good measure. One morning, I made the fatal elementary error of saying something so stupid as "Make sure everything is in your backpack and you're not forgetting anything." You're-a-stupid-mom lasers shot from his eyes as he said "Of courssseeee everything's there. Duuuuuhhhhhh." So I, logically, assumed he had it covered.

As soon as all the kids were out the door, I sat down at the computer to return some emails, drink coffee and do a little Facebook creeping. As soon as I sat down I noticed a very familiar green binder sitting by the keyboard. A binder that had the words "Science" and my kid's name on it. Well, that can't be right because I was assuuuurrrreeeddd that everything was taken care of and dddduuuuuhhh! My initial ha-ha-this-will-teach-my-kid-a-lesson instincts said that I should keep my ass in the spinny chair, my non-travel coffee mug in my hand and not only not take the binder to school, but maybe even hide the binder. And then the stupid invasive bitch that lives inside my brain piped up and reminded me that this kid has yet to miss even one point in science this trimester, and boy oh boy wouldn't it be a bummer for him to miss a few points just because he couldn't turn in the homework that he had completed over the weekend. After all, this was the first time he'd forgotten to take something to school all year!

So what did I do? Of course I grabbed the binder, put on my coat and then walked out the door, without my coffee and without even brushing my teeth. And then after I delivered the binder to the junior high, I figured I'd continue my I'm-a-loser-mom morning by running into Costco to get some of those macadamia nut cookies that he doesn't really remember if he likes or not, but I know are his favorites.

Kids #1 and #2: Most days, my boys are pretty good about making sure their clothes end up in a laundry basket. Lately, I've noticed that they seem to derive enjoyment out of leaving one sweatshirt or pair of pants in the middle of their floor -- sort of an "I'm not as anal as my mom" statement -- but otherwise things are pretty predictable. Until, that is, dress clothes get thrown into the rotation. For some reason, a pants hanger confuses the hell out of them and they're never quite sure if the dress shirt should go in the laundry or not, even though they just got done playing in a piano recital held in a room "hotter than the surface of the sun," as my husband so eloquently put it.

Last Sunday, Zoe and I missed the boys' piano recital and instead drove (well, technically I drove while Zoe watched Toy Story 3 and laughed her ass off) a little over two hours in each direction to spend a whopping 40 minutes at a wake for my great-aunt. By the time I got home, I was mentally shot and hopeful that I wouldn't have to do anything besides wash my face, put on the most hideous flannel pajamas I could find and drink a beer. What I was definitely NOT in the mood for was finding two sets of dress clothes piled in the middle of two different bedroom floors, showing zero evidence of a boy trying to be helpful or self-sufficient. What I instead saw was two boys who figured they could just drop the clothes wherever they wanted to and mom would take care of it because, as we all know, mom always takes care of it. And after all, that Xbox wasn't going to play itself!

Now, I could have dug deep and found the energy to walk from our upper level to the lower level, found more energy to wave my arms around while I yelled at the lazy boys and then stomped back to the upper level to show them for the 38th time how to operate a pant's hanger. But then I probably would have just ended up being even madder because I would have had to stand there and watch them fumble with the complicated contraption because even though they could easily operate a controller for every game console ever made, the mechanics of this particular hanger were just. Too. Darn. Hard.

And then the dog chewed on one of the collar stays, which made me start thinking: if piano teachers and the organizations that support music education for teenagers really want to encourage kids -- boys, in particular -- to continue taking piano lessons, perform in recitals and not drop out, maybe they should stop requiring them to dress up in things that require funky hangers, collar stays and ironing skills. Because if they wouldn't have had to dress up for this particular recital, then I'm sure the clothes would have ended up in the laundry basket instead of the floor, which would mean that I wouldn't have had to pick everything up for them.

Kid #3: Since I've obviously failed miserably in teaching the first two kids how to use common sense and be responsible, I decided at the beginning of this school year that I would leave the packing of Zoe's backpack each morning up to her, and her alone. I envisioned her spending several days walking the school hallways in snowboots because tennis shoes were left in the closet, a few days of recess spent indoors because snowpants were hanging on a hook at home and more than a bookshelf full of overdue library books. So, where exactly am I on this well-intentioned project? Here is how most mornings go:

You need to put a snack in your backpack.
Today you're eating home lunch. Get it out of the fridge.
Where are your shoes?
No, don't put them there, stick them in like this.
What about your snowpants?
No, they don't fit that way. Here let me do it.
Just, give them to me! Now get your lunch.
Wait, where is your water bottle?
You still need a snack.
It's library day. Go get your book off of the table.
It's 10 degrees outside. Please put your coat on.
Yes you need mittens and a hat.
Put your boots on, too.
Get away from the dog's butt and put your boots on!
Go get in the car. Wait, where are your mittens?

So, yeah, things are going pretty much how I predicted they would and I won't be surprised when the UPS man delivers my Pathetic Mom of the Year Award sometime around spring break. After all, that's when the boys' high school tennis season starts which means I'll get to do more driving, more laundry, prepare more meals on-the-go and best of all, have even more opportunities to be pathetic.

Dental Genetics

2011-01-04T12:38:00.007-06:00

When I look at my daughter's life, it's hard not to notice the similarities between her childhood and my own. She's growing up with two older brothers, is an animal lover, has been known to be outspoken, is occasionally mildly competitive, is sort of stubborn, is a little bit picky, and has horrible, defective, crappy enamel on her teeth.

I used to think that my frequent visits to the dentist were my parents' fault. It seemed like a reasonable explanation since I grew up with well water that didn't contain any fluoride, used whatever toothpaste was on sale, and was even forced to occasionally brush my teeth with a horrid concoction of baking soda mixed with lemon juice to get that "sparkling white shine." As a kid, I endured having acres of fillings, several teeth pulled, almost a decade of painful orthodontia and, more recently, have been subjected to a root canal and crown. But then, after reflecting back on my younger years, I realized that my brothers only visited the dentist for check-ups and to receive an occasional filling, were blessed with perfectly straight teeth and now, even though they rarely make dentist appointments as adults, don't get cavities. So maybe it wasn't my parents' fault after all. Maybe it's the fact that my dental genetics were scraped together out of a garbage dumpster and everything seemed A-okay except that important things like enamel that wasn't made out of tracing paper, alignment and being given teeth sized for a normal-sized girl instead of a 7'-tall lumberjack were left out of the mix. Yeah, that could be it.

Sadly, Zoe inherited my teeth or, more appropriately, lack of good teeth. After not eating too much candy or seasoning her food with Fun Dip, she brushes, flosses and rinses, and then ends up with cavities. And I'm not just talking cavities. I'm talking cavities. These suckers are on steroids and seem to appear in a matter of seconds. Meanwhile, her brothers chew on chocolate, occasionally remember to rinse the food out of their braces after they eat and often end up doing a half-ass job brushing their teeth because they're too busy using their brains to think about playing Halo. And then they sail through dental exams, only having to appear in the reclining chair every six months, and not once have had to recover from the numbing effects of novocaine.

At the kids' last cleaning, I was informed that Charlie has to do a better job of brushing because he has what appears to be his own personal compost bin growing amidst his braces, Zach is being lazy brushing his bottom teeth, and Zoe has two abscess teeth on the bottom that would need to be pulled. Okay, so, Charlie please brush better unless you want me to throw your entire head into the actual compost bin by my garden, Zach stop being a lazy ass, and...WHAT? WHO NEEDS TO HAVE TEETH PULLED?

Long story short, bionic cavities had managed to grow under fillings that had already been put in, so two teeth had to come out, spacers needed to go in, which meant a total of four appointments, each scheduled a week apart. They were going to be pulled with novocaine, so no general anesthesia would be necessary. Nitrous could be used (yay!), but then I found out the nitrous was for her, not me, and while that made Zoe excited, it left me pretty disappointed. I scheduled everything for after Christmas, tried to sound all nonchalant about it so as to not freak out my daughter, and then proceeded to quietly freak out.

Before Christmas, the kids played in a holiday piano recital. And even though there were still faint traces of those goddamn red dots on Zoe's face from Clifford Day, the kids all cleaned up pretty well. I'm more than a little obsessed with Zoe's red shoes and the way her tights are all baggy around her ankles, I love that the boys' shirts are untucked and I am impressed that they voluntarily wore something besides tennis clothes (except Zach forgot to switch his socks):

A couple weeks after this picture was taken, it was time for dentist appointment #1. She remembered to bring a stuffed animal to hug, sunglasses to avoid being blinded by the overhead light, she never winced during the novocaine shots and seemed pretty relaxed about the whole ordeal. Meanwhile, I sat in the corner with my foot nervously tap-tappity-tapping and attempted to ignore the smell of the office and the sound of the metal instruments while reading an issue of Men's Journal (I now know how to get a dent out of a ping pong ball.) And then they started pulling.

Seriously people, I thought I was going to faint. I felt like a live-action example of contradiction, trying to convince my little girl that it really doesn't hurt that bad while also fighting the urge to scream "Get the fuck away from my kid because I hate the dentist! You're a bad man! A very bad, bad man!" I knew the tooth had to come out - infection, horrid odor, damage to the adult tooth, blah blah blah - but did it have to come out so, you know, ickily? At one point when Zoe raised her hand trying to claim that the dentist was hurting her, I noticed the dude wasn't even touching her tooth. That's when I decided that I would act like an adult, tell my kid to suck it up, watch her yell in fear as the tears rolled down the sides of her face, and shout out various bribes in order to get her to cooperate. Do you want a toy at Target? Done. Two toys. Done. A prize from the dentist in addition to the two toys? You betcha.

After her appointment, we went shopping for her rewards. Since she was drooling a little bit (novocaine, you know) I decided to just plop her in the cart so that I could periodically wipe the spit and blood off of her lip. And since the hole where her tooth used to be was still bleeding a little bit, she was supposed to keep a wad of cotton in her mouth for about half-an-hour. In addition, all the crying and freaking out had made her Clifford spots flare up again into an angry red. So here I was, pushing around my drooling, bleeding, polk-a-dotted daughter who couldn't form an intelligible word due to the numbness/cotton in her mouth combo, which meant all she could do is sit there and gesture which direction she wanted me to go while moaning things like "AAAARRRGHHIIIGHT" and "UH UH DAAATTTTUUUPP." I was tempted to take a picture of her in this miserable state because it was so completely opposite of how she looked before her piano recital just a couple weeks ago, but then remembered: I had already taken one while she was in the dentist's chair:

And while I still hate the dentist and probably always will, Zoe still likes the guy and is even looking forward to appointment #2, which may or may be due to the fact that I've already bribed her with another toy. And who knows, I might even agree to drive her there -- after someone bribes me with a bottle of vodka and a couple valium.

Actions Cause Reactions

2010-12-29T07:00:00.003-06:00

A definite plus side to the holidays is that long-lost friends return home from far away, which means that I get to see them without ever having to pack a bag or step on a plane. Yesterday, I was lucky enough to spend some time with my all-time favorite babysitter who is in town visiting her family. Well, technically she has her own family now, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, after having three of my own, I can officially say that I am not a baby person anymore. Give me gross motor skills, the ability to hold down a meal for more than ten minutes and some bowel control. But having said that, her kids are so, so cute! The baby wouldn't stop smiling - even when he was spitting up - and Zoe was ecstatic about the fact that she found another little kid in the form of two-year-old Abe that liked to crawl around on all fours and bark like a rabid dog. Mandi is a great mom who has already displayed amazing potty training skills, handles hurl with the best of them and - because she's nursing - is willing to drink her cranberry and tonic without vodka. Obviously, the qualities that made her a kick ass babysitter are also making her a kick ass mom.

While I was sitting there sucking down booze with her mom and ripping on the neighbors, the baby made "the face" and "the noise" and that's when Mandi's mom said "Oh Joel, are you filling your pants? I thought I heard something!" I kind of started to laugh, but in my head I was thinking...no way in hell am I offering to change that kid's diaper. I know! I'm a horrible friend! I mean, how much shit has this poor girl scraped off of my kids in the past!? And here she is, visiting from out of town, and I don't step in for one crap-filled diaper?

Luckily, I don't think Mandi was overly disappointed that I didn't leap into the air and jump at the opportunity to change a butt. But just in case, as she was leaning down to grab the wipes off of the floor with one hand and her slightly fragrant child with the other hand, I said "I'd do it for you, but I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how to change diapers. Sorry." She just laughed a little before reminding me that I hadn't forgotten because I'd recently changed my niece's diaper. I was shocked! How did she know about that? And then she reminded me again...I wrote about it.

(originally posted on June 4, 2010)

My new niece, Bianca, is adorable. Seriously guys, she is so cute. And the most amazing thing to me is that when I'm around her, I actually offer to change her diapers. You'd think that after spending hundreds of hours wiping poop off of someone else's ass I would have allowed myself to drop that skill from my repertoire, but no, I can still change a butt in record speed.

One thing I did forget, though, is that sometimes when the diaper comes off and you pull the kid's feet up to stick the new diaper under their butt, the kid sometimes takes that as an opportunity to do an impression of a bottle of French's mustard. You know, the mustard that is half-clogged so you squeeze really hard to get it to come out, and then the clog dislodges mid-squeeze.

I recently read an article outlining how my life can be happier and more positive if I practiced acceptance of certain situations rather than judgmental observation. Apparently the way a person typically processes daily life experiences, which in this case was shit being squirted across a room, can be broken down into five steps, and it's how a person reacts to these five steps that determines the resulting emotions.

1. Movement: First, something happens in our lives - a tiny incident, a big event, someone's passing comment, or a nearly imperceptible change in the environment. I have to be honest and say that a stream of shit is not exactly a tiny incident and is a fairly big event. Zoe's passing comment was "Oh my gosh, mom! What is all over your shorts? Is that poop? GROSS! HAHAHAHAHA!" And that imperceptible change in the environment was odor, and it was actually pretty perceptible.

2. Sensation: In response to that movement, we feel something physically - a twinge of pain, a flood of heat or cold, a clenching or emptiness in our body, a vibration or fluctuation we can't name. I felt a twinge of nausea, a trickle of poop running down my leg, and a light sweaty film forming on my forehead as I quickly surveyed the damage on the changing table. As far as the feelings of emptiness, I'm sure that was Bianca's bowels.

3. Thought: Then we consciously or unconsciously identify the sensation and assign some kind of reason or meaning or value to it. I very consciously identified the sensation as "disgusting" and I guess the only meaning I could come up with was that Bianca somehow knew I was a seasoned veteran when it came to diaper changing so she figured it was a good time to open the gates on her large intestine because I wouldn't panic, unlike my brother who has only been dealing with fecal matter for a couple weeks. I don't think there was any value to assign, except maybe the value of the dozens of wipes I ended up using.

4. Emotional Reaction: Next we experience a flash of a certain feeling or a combination of them - grief, fear, anger, irritation, shame, nervousness, hurt, desire, relief and so on. In addition to a little bit of panic (I really didn't want poop stains on my white shorts), I actually experienced laughter, because throughout this whole ordeal all Zoe was worried about was whether she could drag the Sit 'N Spin out of Bianca's closet. I don't know if you remember, but I tried to get rid of that space hog at Goodwill a few months ago and they wouldn't take it, so I pawned it off on my brother. So while I was wiping up his kid's splattered crap, I couldn't help but envision my brother in a couple years, constantly tripping over that thing and eventually trying to drop it off at Goodwill.

5. Behavior: Finally, we take some kind of action or reaction, verbally, physically or attitudinally - either to stop the feeling, escape it, or to do something else about it. I told Bianca that it was okay she sprayed her Auntie with poop, carried her cleaned-up and newly-outfitted self downstairs, handed her to my brother, changed my shorts, made a drink and realized that being an aunt kicks ass.

Happy Ho Ho Ho!

2010-12-25T07:29:00.004-06:00

Merry Christmas! May your day be filled with fun, laughter, imperfection that is taken in stride, great food, amazing cocktails and not too many tears. May you have the strength to look back on the catastrophe's of 2010 with a sense of humor and anticipate the inevitable speed bumps that will get in your way in 2011.

Today especially, if you have a baby, cherish their immobility and inability to complain. If you have little kids, try to enjoy their energy and unpredictability. If you have teenagers, try not to kill them. If you have family staying with you for an extended period of time, don't forget to put that all-important bottle of vodka and bag of kettle chips in your closet. And if you have a dog, keep track of that tinsel because nothing ruins Christmas night faster than having to take a dog to an emergency vet just so that he can hack up a giant wad of foil.

Most of all, take some time to sit back, watch your kids unwrap all the gifts that they've been coveting for the last month or so, sip something cold, eat a couple more cookies and, if you're as lucky as me, enjoy the kick ass gift that one of your kids has already given you:

Yes, that is a giant wad of bubble wrap, from Zoe. Apparently the girl is expecting me to bash my shins and hips into even more tables and corners of the wall in 2011 so, ya know, she just wants me to be safe. I love having a thoughtful child.

SAHM - Holiday Edition

2010-12-23T07:52:00.003-06:00

Every Monday night, for an hour and a half, the kids are at piano lessons. More accurately, the boys and I sit in a small room while Zoe spends half-an-hour learning all about middle-C and half-steps vs. whole-steps, and then I get to leave with the girl while the boys split the next hour. This means that each boy spends a total of one hour sitting on his ass.

Since I'm not a big fan of wasting time and am trying to teach my kids the importance of time-management, I've attempted to enforce a no texting/gaming/zoning out/acting like a moron policy during this hour. Instead, I have told them to use this time to either get some homework done, study for upcoming tests, or (gasp!) read something for fun.

While waiting for Zoe's lesson a few weeks ago, I noticed Charlie sitting on the couch, focusing intently on some crap that had accumulated under his thumb nail. He sat there for a full three minutes, staring at that shit like it was going to burst out and chew his face off if he so much as diverted his gaze for one second. Finally, I couldn't take it any longer. I said don't you have any homework to do? And if not, did you bring a book? And what about your other thumbnail? Isn't it going to feel neglected after you've showered the other thumb with so much attention?

He looked at me with an expression that was like what? Who are you? Why are you sitting there? What planet am I on? After he blinked a few times and his brain caught up with the current time, day, setting and my mood, he said no, no homework. None homework. Well, except for this one piece of homework, but you can't do it. I have to ask dad. Cuz dad has a job. It's about a job. Like a real job. I have to ask questions about a job, and you don't have a, well, you know, like, a...

And this is when things got precarious, and I have to admit that I kind of enjoyed watching him sit there, squirming, trying to figure out a way to describe what I do that wouldn't result in him getting pummeled over the head.

"A job. Right? Is that what you're trying to say? You need to ask dad because he gets in a car that doesn't contain a booster seat or have sliding doors and drives to a place other than the grocery store or Target and gets to hang out in a place where everyone is over five feet tall?"

"Well, yeah," he said.

Turns out that his assignment required him to interview an adult who works at a job supporting him/herself and/or a family, and ask this adult about his or her experience in the world of work. And since I didn't think that this was the best time to break into a "oh my fucking hell do you have any idea what I do for you kids all day" rant and demand that he fill in the blanks with responses like "I get to boil noodles and call it dinner. I am real good at cleaning me some pee off the toilet bowls every day and that sure does help support that there family a whole lot" I decided to not take his mom doesn't have a job stance too personally, and instead answered the questions for him as if I were his father. After all, he had the questionnaire with him and had all that extra time to kill, might as well not waste it staring at a thumbnail!

Now that the holidays are quickly approaching (Did you know the holidays are almost here? From what I've been told, I think that Christmas is just days away!), I've been thinking about Charlie's assignment, and the fact that the title SAHM goes through a major modification between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. In fact, I'll bet if I completed his questionnaire it would be pretty interesting! So I decided to do his assignment again, and maybe he can turn it in as extra credit.

CAREER INTERVIEW

What is your career/occupation/job? SAHM - Holiday Edition

What is your current job title and what exactly do you do? Holiday meal planner, which means trying to come up with several meals that are unique, festive and non-weird, but that don't require me to spend dozens of hours in the kitchen preparing something that half of the family won't eat. I am also the gift buyer, home decorator, outdoor lighting expert, excitement creator and wardrobe manager. Which means that I shop, wrap, clean, festoon, iron, shop some more, address envelopes, wait in lines and reign in aggression. Oh, and I also still do all of my other, very glamorous duties, like clean toilet bowls, which is really a suspense-filled activity this time of year because after all, some of that holiday food is kind of rich.

How many jobs have you had in your life? Five

What were they? They were those five other jobs that I had in my life before I became a SAHM.

Has changing technology affected your work life? Well, let's just say that if it weren't for being able to shop online, there would either be fewer presents under the tree or more strangers with black eyes. And being able to order my groceries online and arrange to have them delivered the day before a major holiday is pretty much on the same happiness level as Santa bringing me a truckload of vodka.

Has the economic recession affected your work life? Duh.

Why did you choose this job? Because it's so satisfying and fun -- to make fun of other people. Watching them tromp in and out of stores, stalk each other for parking spots, debate about which piece of hideous jewelry to buy for the teacher gift, scream at their overheated/overstimulated kids, wait in line for Santa, expect perfection -- it doesn't get any better than that.

What do you enjoy most about your work? Finding cool gifts for everyone is actually pretty enjoyable, but at the end of it all, throwing away the leftover cookies, sending the kids back to school and putting the Christmas tree away kicks ass. And not having to hear the word "Doorbuster" or see a Lexus with a big red bow on it for the next eleven months: euphoria.

Why is your job important to you? Because it makes my family happy, and I get to be a control freak.

What are some rewards, besides money, that you get from your job? I get to see some of the best behavior of the year come from my youngest kid because, after all, 'tis the season for bribery and the Santa card.

What new things have you had to learn to do your job? How to gift wrap a large stuffed dolphin, how to simultaneously attend a tennis lesson and a choir concert, how to find a gift that a kid asked Santa for but is no longer available domestically, how to find energy and generosity at the end of a day when all you want to do is sit down with a glass of whiskey and tell everyone else to go away already, and 5,000 other things.

How long does it take for you to get to work? Luckily for me, I live where I work. Although, this time of year it feels like I might as well be working part-time at the grocery store since it seems like I know more about their inventory than their employees do.

On average, how many hours do you work per week? On average, how many hours are there in a week? 168? Yeah, that sounds about right. Because as all parents know, even when you're sleeping there is always one ear on alert, waiting for the sound of an illness hitting a kid. And everyone knows, if an illness is going to hit a kid, it's going to happen in the middle of the night. Two days before Christmas.

What part does the computer and other technology play in your work? In addition to the obvious - online shopping, Facebook, this blog (aka therapy) - it allows me to monitor the kids' grades and most recent test scores. And depending on what I find, the amount of online shopping that I need to get done can go through a drastic reduction.

The Christmas Countdown

2010-12-17T09:13:00.008-06:00

I know I'm not alone here (right, Nancy!?) when I say...enough with the countdowns. I'm tired of hearing "Are you done with your Christmas shopping? Did you get your cards out yet? What are your plans for winter break?" and "Only a few more days to get it all done!" Every time I see a festive sweater or hear yet another version of Rudolph or the words "Doorbuster, Santariffic" or "Wrap the Holidays in Fun," it doesn't make me want to go a'caroling or a'wassailing or a'shopping. It does, however, put me in the mood to go a'drinking and a'swearing while I a'watch a little a'football.

The good news is that yes, I am done with the shopping, the wrapping, the mailing and, despite wanting to skip this year, I even sent out Christmas cards. The fake tree is decorated, the Santa gifts are hidden and each kid has a bag of crap that's just waiting to be jammed into their always-too-small stocking. But, sadly, I'm not done. Not even close.

According to my calendar, what I've been told, and what I overheard while eavesdropping on those two women at Target, these are a few of the statistics:

There is one week left until Christmas.
Two weeks left until we say adios to 2010.
Three school days before winter break.
Or for some kids, zero days until winter break.
Three trips to the grocery store that need to be made.
Actually, it's six trips if you count the two different stores because it wouldn't make sense for one store to carry everything that I need.
Two trips to the liquor store.
Or, for the insane, zero trips to the liquor store.
Or, if you're me, five trips.
$250 of express shipping fees that someone (but not me) needs to spend because a couple out-of-town recipients were "forgotten."
$0 of shipping fees because I paid attention when I got an email that said "Perfect gift for the mother-in-law" and "FREE SHIPPING!"
Twenty dozen cookies that will be baked in the next 36 hours.
Which sounds almost as nauseating as saying "three pounds of butter."
Seven days left to play the Santa card.
Eight gifts that "might" be returned to the store before Christmas if someone doesn't change their attitude NOW!
Two parents that had the nerve to plan a kid's birthday party the week before Christmas.
One more choir concert to get through.
One piano recital to get through. And oh how I hope that woman that has a Bump-It permanently implanted in her skull sits in front of me again.
Two more tennis lessons. Oh, and two tournaments before 2011.
Four more trips to the junior high, which will bring the number of trips in one week to a grand total of Ee-Lev-En.
Three bags of ice that I'm planning on purchasing in the next week.
Four bags if things go well.
Six bags if things go really well.
Oh wait, I forgot about New Year's weekend. So then, let's just say a lot of bags of ice.
Two classes that a kid missed last Friday, but it's okay because it was a planned absence and I was assured that the kid had everything turned in.
Four things that weren't turned in, completed, accounted for or were just forgotten about.
Ten minutes that I yelled about those four things.
Four limbs on a kid that resembled a dried up reptile because, after all, there are only three different things of lotion in the bathroom to choose from so how could I be so unrealistic as to expect the lotion to actually be applied to the scaly skin?
Really, though, how could I expect him to use lotion? After all, I've only reminded him 472 times.
Three times within fifteen minutes that I said "You need to get up at 6."
Which explains why, within one minute, a kid asked "So what time should I get up?"
Ten minutes that I yelled about that.
Twelve minutes that I wasted, standing in line at the self-service kiosk at the post office, waiting for the technologically retarded (I know that term isn't politically correct, but I think that in this case she was sort of retarded) woman to figure out how to ship a manila envelope to St. Louis and also purchase one sheet of Forever stamps, all within one transaction. She failed. Miserably. Instead of one transaction, it was actually more like seven. Seriously. The machine would not stop beeping at her.
Zero inches of snow in the weather forecast for the next two weeks. You hear that, bitch-face Mother Nature? I want ZERO!
Six scaly spots on Zoe's face that need to heal so that people can stop asking me "What's on her face? What's wrong with your daughter? Does she have the chicken pox?" and I have to repeatedly say: No, she doesn't have a disease. It's because they had Clifford (you know, the big red sweetly retarded {sorry} dog) day at school a few days ago and they used face paint to put these black dots on my kid's face. But unfortunately they used some funky face paint that contained arsenic and lye and cyanide and was probably made in Tanzania and had been recalled in 1983, which left these angry red spots on my daughter's cheeks. No, she doesn't have chicken pox because even though I'm anal and organized, I don't have the power to make sure that chicken-pox-induced red sores appear perfectly symmetrical and in only one highly visible location. And if you think the spots look freaky now, you should have seen her right after I washed the face paint off:

Oh, and yesterday she got a haircut and her bangs are so cute. But they're really short which, for some reason, accentuates the fact that there is also a scaly spot on the end of her nose. Cuz, ya know, Clifford's nose is black.

Now, where is that first bag of ice?

Save Your Money

2010-12-13T07:00:00.002-06:00

Now that Christmas is officially less than two weeks away, one of my favorite questions to ask my kids' friends is "What are you hoping to get for Christmas?" With almost frightening accuracy, I can almost always predict which kids will say "I don't really know, because there's nothing I really need" and which ones, without hesitation, say "Money, another Xbox, cash, a new cell phone, a car, a ski trip in Colorado with my friends, gift cards, maybe some more money, and did I mention money?"

This year, my kids haven't asked for much. A video game here, a board game there, maybe a few pieces of plastic weaponry, but fortunately nothing that will force us to eat ramen for the next few months. That gift list belongs to me (new refrigerator anyone?), which is why when anyone asks me what I want for Christmas, my response is always "Nothing. Really, nothing. Unless you're prepared to spend $20,000." to which they respond "Okay, then. No problem. Nothing it is." But then there's always those people that insist on getting you something because after all, 'tis the season for giving crappy gifts (like the ones on this list).

One thing about the Sunday paper this time of year is that it weighs about 12 pounds, 11.5 of which is ads for doorbuster sales. Buried in these ads, and in the barrage of catalogs that have been arriving in my mailbox since September, are some products that truly leave me wondering -- who in the hell would ever buy any of this stuff for someone and expect to hear "Kick ass! I always wanted me one of these! You knew exactly what I needed!"

This craptastic bedding set is appropriately called "Mossy Oak," and can be yours for the low price of $120. Maybe it would be good for parents to have, though, because when the kids wander in at midnight, they won't be able to find mom or dad.

I think this is a back massager, but considering the shape and varying lengths of the "massage tips," something tells me it could probably be used for other things as well.

No, it's not an alien or even a Rocky Mountain bighorn ram with unusually large horns. It's a uterus pillow. Just what every girl wants, and what every guy wants to see propped up on the couch.

If you wear this thing for just ten minutes a day, you will notice a 72% reduction in sagging, a 42% reduction in wrinkles, a noticeable improvement in skin tone and color, and a 100% reduction in the number of friends you have. Because now they all think you're insane.

When I bring my daughter to the pool, I like for her to be able to swim, kick, jump and stand in the pool, not to mention be able to walk (not run) on the pool deck. Notice, "wave legs around like a moron mermaid" and "fall flat on face because her feet are stuck together" are not on this list.

The funny thing is, I know someone that would think this is a pretty cool gift. I, however, don't need one because I see something frighteningly similar every day. It's called a "neighbor."

These "instant flattery" pinstripe slacks may very well make the legs look long and lean, but they also make the ass look all squishy and fat, especially when one bends over.

I know there are families out there that buy new pajamas every Christmas, and some of these families go so far as to buy matching pj's. But come on, matching pajamas for the dog? That's going too far.

And just so you know, if I were to ever buy green striped pajamas for my husband, I would never see him wearing them on Christmas morning. Because dead people can't see.

Too. Many. Jokes. Can't. Think. Clearly.

hahahahahahahahahaha! Seriously? Anyone who has been married for more than two minutes knows that when the husband is out of town, the wife is all HOLY SHIT THIS IS AWESOME! I HAVE THE WHOLE BED TO MYSELF WITHOUT ANYONE ELSE'S BODY PARTS TAKING UP SPACE!

Honestly, how creepy would it be to sleep with a fucking arm? Who knows, though. Maybe you can insert four "D" batteries and the hand does a gentle squeezing motion. That would explain why she put the hand on her boob.

Please Complete This Survey

2010-12-10T07:00:00.000-06:00

I don't know what it is about me, but as soon as a school project is due and all retail establishments are closed, I cause printers to malfunction. I've written about my wonderful experiences with Hewlett Packard in the past (like here and here), but after a month or so of not having a science project due, I had kind of forgotten about how it tends to break down at critical times. This time, though, it wasn't because of a science project -- it was for Spanish.

For this project, Zach had to write sentences that described each family member (I didn't read it very closely, but I'm assuming my page included things like "Mi mama es totalmente loco.") and also include a picture of each person. Things were going really well, until we attempted to print the pictures. Needless to say, the colors were not accurate.

Since I had noticed color inaccuracy issues over the last several weeks (but honestly, who cares if the school lunch menu has a slight blue tint to it?), I decided it was finally time to invest a few minutes and call Hewlett Packard to let them know that I was the proud owner of yet another piece of their manufactured shit. I looked online to find a customer service phone number, dialed it up and almost fell off my chair when a real, live human answered on the second ring, saying "Hello. This be Radharishnan. Thanks calling HP for your needs. How can you be helped?"

I explained my printer issues to him, he seemed genuinely empathetic to my frustrations and I was feeling optimistic about how things were going. Then he said that I had called a customer service location that was meant to help with corporate software issues, that he had no ability to help with my printing needs, here is the correct number for you to dial and oh yes, have a day that's nice.

I hung up, slightly confused, and then called the number he gave me. This is when things took a nasty turn and now my feelings can be best summed up as: I fucking hate Hewlett Packard, aka the worst company in existence who manufactures nothing but pieces of shit that are molded into things that slightly resemble printers.

Fortunately, a couple days after the phone call they sent me an online Customer Support Survey, which I was more than happy to complete.

Please select the language that you would like to take this survey in:

English, so that I can say "fuck you."

You have selected English for this survey.

Yeah, no shit.

The survey will take approximately 5 minutes to complete.

***sigh***

In which country do you currently reside?

The United States, unlike your customer service department.

Our records indicate that you recently contacted HP's Technical Support, where it was determined that your HP product is no longer supported under HP's warranty program. Is this correct?

Yes, it is, because your warranty program is designed for products that aren't pieces of shit. But unfortunately your products suck donkey ass.

Were you offered technical support for a fee to resolve your product issue?

Yes, I was. And I think after I was given the opportunity to pay $35 for someone to say "clean the printer heads" instead of "We're so sorry our printers suck, may I suggest, for free, that you clean the printer heads, which can only be done through the HP Device Manager on your computer," I maybe said something like "No thanks, stupid bitch."

Did you accept or decline the fee-based technical support offered?

Pretty sure that "no thanks, stupid bitch" means I will decline the opportunity to give you $35 for 12 seconds of advice.

Please indicate the main reason why you declined the fee-based technical support?

Maybe, just possibly, because I believe that a company shouldn't sell hunks of crap that are constructed with zero quality control just so that they can make more money when the customer has to deal with technical support.

Overall, how would you rate this most recent telephone support event from HP? Please use a scale from 0 to 10 where "10" means "Outstanding and "0" means "Unacceptable."

0 - which in this case, means holy shit was this a waste of my time and your company sucks. And oh yes, you are unacceptable.

Using the same scale from 0 to 10, please rate your satisfaction with the technical support agent who assisted you.

Not to sound redundant, but 0.

Thank you for taking the time to participate in this survey. Your responses are valuable to HP and will help improve service and support.

Yeah, right. And I'm going to become a vegetarian and start homeschooling my kids.

After I calmed down from the hellacious phone conversation with the clueless tech support agent who was incapable of using any common sense, I went online and found a solution to the malfunctioning printer issue myself. In the process, I came across several posts about Hewlett Packard's crappy service, including:

By far the worst support EVER!
I am fighting with the support in GOD-DAMNED India!
I am disappointed that everything with your company is money.
HP customer service is horrible.
I will never buy another HP product ever!
This is where they make their money since they have such a lousy product.
The warranty is up by one day and they want $100 for support.
Pathetic - those are the only words to describe HP's quality control and customer service.
I have had the worst experience with HP.

Okay, so I'm not alone in my hatred for this company, which makes me happy. And the fact that the pictures were eventually printed with the correct colors made me happy. And listening to Zach quiz Zoe on Spanish words, and hearing her respond correctly, made me really happy. She knew that:

hola = hello
rojo = red
verde = green
adios = goodbye
vamos = let's go
uno = one
Dora the Explorer = moron
margarita = mom

Low-Income (Gingerbread) Housing

2010-12-06T07:30:00.000-06:00

I don't know what it is that possesses people this time of year, but suddenly everyone thinks it's a great idea to try to construct a house made of baked goods. I overheard two suit-wearing men at Costco contemplating the purchase of a gingerbread house kit, thinking it would be so much fun to put together and display at the office. A friend of mine on Facebook put a kit together with her kid and instead of creating a memorable moment, it resulted in this status update: "Why can such a nice holiday tradition such as building gingerbread houses go so wrong?? ...grrrr.). I've seen several moms caving in to the pleas of small children, voluntarily putting a kit in their cart, completely oblivious to the torture they're about to put themselves through. I've wanted to intervene and tell all of these people NO! DON'T DO IT! YOU WILL FOREVER HATE THE HOLIDAYS AND THE SMELL OF NUTMEG IF YOU PURCHASE THAT PRODUCT! but then I think, hell - if I suffered through it, then so should they.

(originally posted on December 15, 2009)

I don't bake very often and when I do, I'm a big fan of pre-made cookie dough. I don't have to bring the butter to room temperature, cleanup is minimal and I don't end up with six-dozen cookies in the house. Yet for reasons that I can't explain, Christmas motivates me to actually drag out the stand mixer, soften butter, buy chocolate chips and sweetened condensed milk and bake from scratch. I don't make anything very extravagant, but at least it's something that doesn't come in a yellow package with the words "Do not consume raw cookie dough" printed in two different locations. And by the way, if you eat an entire thing of raw cookie dough and end up spending a little extra time in the bathroom with a stomach ache, don't get pissed off at Nestle.

So anyway, back to Christmas. Every year I manage to decorate a fake tree, hang stockings, wind some garland around my railings, drink cocktails and bake some cookies. I never ruin perfectly good booze with eggnog, wear "festive" sweaters, sing Christmas carols in public and, with the exception of 2002, I never make a gingerbread house.

Seven years ago, when Charlie was four, he found a gingerbread house kit at Target. Since assembling kits of any type are pretty much my own little slice of hell, I tried to talk him out of it, offering to buy him new Legos or cigarettes instead. Unfortunately, he was completely obsessed with purchasing this nightmare-in-a-box. Yes, I know I could have just said "No" and left the store with the sad child in tow, but for some reason I thought maybe it would actually be fun! After all, the box claimed that it was: "A perfect Christmas craft for the entire family. A real holiday treat."

Turns out, it would have been more fun to spend a couple hours exfoliating my face with a cheese grater. The roof with "shingle-like embossing" was cracked, the frosting sucked, the "sparkling starlight mints and jewel-tone jelly beans" were stuck together, and after seeing that our house wasn't going to be the whimsical palace that he had envisioned, Charlie wanted nothing to do with our gingerbread-flavored Habitat for Humanity masterpiece. I was about to drop the whole kit into the garbage, make a much needed drink and breathe a sigh of relief, but Doug made me put the damn thing together so he could make a video and laugh. So even though I may have built a gingerbread house worthy of condemnation, at least I was able to contribute to his holiday cheer.

A Stranger's Lap

2010-12-03T09:00:00.002-06:00

Believe it or not, sometimes I'm nice. Well, at least in Zoe's eyes I'm nice. Last night, if you were to get my boys' opinions, I'm a horrid, horrid person.

Normally on Thursday nights, the boys finish up their tennis lesson and then spend an hour and a half scarfing pizza and playing ping pong with friends at the club while Zoe has her lesson. But, because of the need to fit 25 things into a schedule better suited to accommodate 18 things, not to mention the potential for a winter storm this weekend, with a little request from Zoe best summed up as WHEN AM I GOING TO SEE SANTA thrown into the cornucopia of chaos, occasionally things need to be rearranged. As a result, last night did not fall under their category of Super Fun.

In order to avoid giving them the opportunity to verbally object to the schedule change, I texted Zach from the car with a little something like "Santa mall meet me in parking lot now." Since I didn't get a reply in the form of either a message or the sight of a boy coming out the door, I followed this message up with a phone call that included phrases like "I know you don't want to but you have to, I don't want to hear it, it will not take forever, yes I know you hate malls, yes malls are stupid" and finally "GET IN THE CAR!"

We hadn't taken four steps inside the automatic door before Zach's I HATE MALLS chant began. Keeping in mind that I hate malls too, and considering the fact that the first thing we were subjected to was the olfactory assault courtesy of the Macy's cosmetics department, this chant did not boost my Christmas spirit and I started to feel a little claustrophobic. Fortunately, he broke into the second verse of his chant, and it went a little something like this: I hate malls and I'm hungry.

After "dinner" in the food court, during which I felt like I was trapped in a John Hughes movie - the lighting, the bad Christmas music being piped in, the neon Sbarro sign with the burned out "o", the teenagers making out and the exhausted woman forcefully shoving her crying, snowsuited child into a stroller - we wandered around trying to find Santa's Village. As soon as I saw the tips of the fake evergreens in the distance, the boys decided to head to the bathroom. I'm sure Santa wishes that more kids would make this a priority before they sit on his lap.

Zoe and I waited in the shortest Santa line I've ever seen (aka we were the only people in line) and after (hopefully) washing their hands, the boys joined her. I pulled out my phone to snap a couple pictures, and that's when Bi-Focal-Wearing Helper Elf quickly intervened.

Elf: Excuse me, no pictures allowed. You need to buy something.

Me: But I don't want anything. I just want a picture.

Elf: Then you can buy a picture.

Me: But I don't want to buy a $17 8x10. I want a $0 picture.

Elf: Well, usually people buy pictures.

Me: I just want to take one picture. I promise I won't tell.

Elf: How about a keychain? Or a magnetic frame?

Me: I don't want a keychain or frame. I just want a picture.

Elf: Well, I guess if I don't see you take the picture...

Me: Merry Christmas.

Santa turned out to be pretty cool. He thanked my boys for cooperating with their mom, said they are nice kids and told them to enjoy their much-needed time off from school during the Christmas break. He didn't throw in any fake Ho-Ho-Ho's or rub his bowl full of jelly or bother to share any wacky tales from the North Pole, all of which my boys appreciated and, judging by the smile on her face, I'm sure Zoe didn't miss.

On our way out (which, by the way, was expeditious due to Zach's saying "Do you know the way to the car? Yes? Well, then, let's go straight there making zero extra turns, without stopping to look at anything.") Zoe asked me the question that all parents dread: Was that Santa real?

I stopped walking (inducing an eye roll from Zach who, after throwing his arms in the air, kept walking), looked at Zoe and without a hint of doubt in my voice said, "Well of course he's real. Who else would it be?"

Yes, I looked my child in the eye and lied. But I am NOT losing the Santa card to a six-year-old. After all, it's still three weeks until Christmas.

Holiday Greetings! We're Better Than You!

2010-12-01T09:00:00.003-06:00

Ever since our first kid entered the world 14 years ago, I have always sent out Christmas cards. And while I know plenty of people that are completely satisfied sending out a photo card from Walgreens featuring a recent snapshot of the kids posing in front of a snowman or the Christmas tree, I have always taken a different route. A much more time intensive, high maintenance, not very cheap, maybe I should be checking my sanity, route.

Since both of my boys were born at the end of August, I always had their pictures taken at some point during the month of September. And while I know plenty of people that are completely satisfied with the photo sessions at Sears, JCPenney or ProEx (which is now closed), I took a different route. A much more high maintenance, hey let's drive 45 minutes one-way, please don't have a meltdown while the photographer takes 150 pictures, so much for the $19.95 sitting fee, yes I actually am insane, route. But holy shit do we have some kick ass pictures of the kids, and every year there was always something presentable enough to be sent as a Christmas card.

After Zoe joined our family, we made exactly two more appointments with this photographer before I realized that, going forward, there was no way in hell I was ever going to have the time to make this trip again. For one, the boys were school-age so the luxury of weekday appointments was gone. For two, Zoe wasn't nearly as cooperative with the photographer as the boys had been, and three, I kind of wanted to stop being insane.

The upside of all this is that I now have one less obligation to worry about in the fall, the kids don't have to suffer through a lengthy photo session and the money that was once spent on prints and proofs can now be spent on other, more fun things (like tennis lessons and booze). The downside is that, from ages two to five, Zoe kind of got the shaft when it comes to professional pictures and I'm now responsible for making sure that at some point during the year, I take a picture of the kids that could be considered Christmas card-worthy.

For the last few years, I've sat down at the Mac, sifted through some pictures, maybe even come up with a little poem (and by the way, it's really hard to find a festive word that rhymes with 'vodka'), fit all of the above on a template, clicked "Buy Now" and had the cards in my hand before Thanksgiving. This year, though, it's December First and the only thing I'm holding is my coffee cup. Considering the cost of postage, my limited time, my incessant, inexplicable need to hand-address envelopes rather than use printed labels and my lack of holiday cheer in general, I'm thinking that 2010 is going to be the year for a no-go on the Christmas cards.

But then I started thinking that maybe I should send at least a little something, just so that people don't get their hopes up and wonder if I did finally fall of the face of the Earth. So who knows, maybe in the next couple days something will inspire me, a suitable picture of the kids will magically appear in iPhoto and a free hour or two will materialize, allowing me to click, drag, crop, edit out a zit and Buy Now. But, under no circumstances, no matter how much free time I find myself having to fill, will I be composing a newsletter like one of these:

(originally posted on November 16, 2009)

The Bragfest. "Dominic, at the age of eight, won the science fair at his private school, and his research is now being funded by The Mayo Cancer Center. The $25,000 tuition really is quite a bargain! Our stunning daughter, Shelby, got married in a captivating ceremony on the beaches of Aruba with 360 close friends in attendance, for only $675 per person. Stefan and I decided to downsize this year, saying goodbye to our beloved 23,000 sq. ft. chateau and 5 of our 11 household staff members. In June, we moved into a cozy 9,000 sq. ft. cottage, but still enjoy the afternoon sip of Dom Perignon!"

The "Thank God" Newsletter. "On this, the most glorious of holidays, I thank God for my health, my family, the food we eat, socks, and the paper that these Godly words are printed on. I thank God for giving me the fine motor skills necessary to grasp my pen, the ink in the pen, and giving me the ability to write these wonderful words that have been sent directly to me from Him. And even though the dog got hit by a car this year, Tim got laid off after devoting 28 years to his company, and grandpa Oscar got mauled by the combine, I know that these things happened because God wanted them to, and everything happens for a reason."

Too Much Information. "Sally had a wonderful year in 2009. After participating in Girl Scouts, cello lessons, gymnastics, ballet, riding lessons, cooking classes, and yoga, she hardly has time to eat her dinner of organic spelt and Tofurkey. Sally had an ear infection in February, a cold in April, another cold in March and an itchy elbow in July. After a trip to the emergency room, we were relieved to find out that the itch was just a mosquito bite. Now, about the other 5 kids..."

The Literary Wannabe. "Oh, the most wondrous of seasons, as I settle into the depths of the rich sepia leather upholstery covering my armchair, basking in the warm golden glow of the crackling and popping fire, a snifter of fine brandy near at hand, I feel overwhelmed with emotion thinking about the bountiful miracles that surround me each morn and eve. Oh, how my heart doth ache and throb, reflecting on the past days and joys that I have had the pleasure to witness. I become overwrought with emotion, pondering the future and all that it holds."

The Big Picture. Sometimes a photo card is more informative than the newsletters. Every year I seem to receive a family picture of kids and parents bundled up and posing by snow-covered evergreens. Everyone is in a coat zipped up to the chin, except for mom. Somehow she manages to stay warm wearing only a low cut v-neck sweater, with the evidence of how she spent last year's tax refund hanging out and on full display. Judging by the picture, though, it definitely is cold outside.

The Brown Stain, Vol. 3

2010-11-24T07:00:00.004-06:00

Everywhere I go, I hear people rejoicing about the fact that Thanksgiving creates a short week, and oh yeah man! A three-day week! This is going to kick ass only having to work for three days! Woo hoo! And while I know of several school districts that, in addition to Thursday and Friday, also have Wednesday (or, in some cases, the entire freaking week) off, my kids only have two days off. Some people might think this is a great situation, since kids in school means kids not at home. But unfortunately, all this means for us is that five days of school concerts, science projects, class parties and chaos have been crammed into three. Very. Busy. Days.

And it all started with first grade.

I don't know exactly when or how it happened, but a few weeks ago a note came home informing me that the first graders were going to be having a Fall Festival! and Oh boy is it ever going to be fun! I remember seeing a place for me to sign my name and thinking hmm, maybe this piece of paper shouldn't go directly into the recycling bin. Maybe I should sign it and send it back. Because maybe aliens are invading my body and I've lost all ability to think clearly and rationally and holy shit! I just volunteered to help out at the Fall Festival!

As the day approached, I was pretty sure I felt a scratchy throat, raspy cough, nasal congestion, Ebola virus, super ouchie paper cut, shin splints, or a combination of these and was thinking I had a good reason to cancel. And even if I did manage to make a miraculous recovery from my plague in time for the Fall Festival! I was sure that my presence wouldn't be missed. After all, tons of other parents were probably volunteering for the fun-filled Fall Festival! and I would just be standing around with nothing to do but point and smirk. Yeah, that's it. I just won't show up. Just as long as Zoe doesn't know that I was supposed to be there, because that would really suck if she walks around yelling "Where's my mom? Has anyone seen my mom? She was supposed to be here and she said that all of her compound fractures had healed up, so where is she?" But she hasn't mentioned anything, so I'm sure it's fine if I...

"Here mom! This note is for you! We have a party tomorrow and you get to come help! See, your name is right here next to the 'Thanks for offering to help out at the First Grade Fall Festival! See you tomorrow morning!' So you're coming, right?"

Seriously, how do I say no to that face? (cough...cough...sniffle)

So Tuesday morning arrives and I figure okay. I can do this. I'll just show up earlier than scheduled, snag the easiest game (because there is no way in hell I'm going to get stuck with Turkey Bowling), boss some kids around and at the same time, accumulate some major good mom points with my kid. No problem.

Well, there wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that, much to my surprise, a Fall Festival! Leader Mom had stepped forward weeks ago, and she took it upon herself to pre-assign everyone to a game. I had to check "the list" to find out; A) which game I was in charge of and, B) the name of the other parent also assigned to my game. I broke into a panicy sweat. What if I had to hang out with Fanny for an hour? Or the Halloween Party mom? And what if I had to hang out with either of these women while face painting!? Oh my fucking hell! What have I gotten my control freak-self into?

As I walked up to check the list, I started having flashbacks of my college days. I felt like I was checking for my calculus grade after I had taken a test while completely hungover, and this just made me sweat more. And holy shit did I breathe a sigh of relief when I saw that I was assigned to Penny Toss with a mom that is super nice. This was good because in addition to the sweat, I was starting to feel nauseous.

So, Penny Toss -- easy enough. Toss a penny toward a piece of poster board that has "Toy, Sticker, Candy, Play-Doh" written on it and win a prize. I quickly drew a couple neanderthal-size feet on a piece of purple construction paper (see, this is why I will never be a good candidate for face-painting) and taped it to the floor so that the kids would know where to stand and, while chatting with the other mom, waited for the first kids to show up. And that's when it occurred to me: 120+ kids were going to be playing this game, and we had eight pennies. Count them...EIGHT.

While quickly making a mental note to not allow my hands to come within 20 inches of my face for the next hour no matter how much my nose itched, the game began and went a little something like this:

Hand penny to child
Pick penny up off of the floor
Hand penny to child, which child grabs after pulling finger out of their nose
Child tosses penny
Penny rolls near garbage can before I pick it up off of the floor
Hand penny to child
Child tosses penny four feet further than necessary
Pick penny up off of the floor
Child puts penny in mouth, then tosses it onto board
I gag a little bit, then pick the penny up off of the floor

And on and on this went, with me adding little variations here and there to keep things interesting. Small things like "Hey, if you land exactly right on this corner here, you win an Xbox" and then the kid would miss and I'd just shrug my shoulders. Or if a kid bitched about landing on the Play-Doh square (because honestly, they all just wanted the damn candy), I'd say "Well, you can take the Play-Doh or you can have a kick in the shin." They all thought I was pretty much insane, and now feel sorry for Zoe.

Even though it felt like the Fall Festival! was never going to end, I was finally able to make a break for it, decontaminate my hands and continue with my day. My very over-scheduled, chaotic, barely time to pee let alone make dinner and get everyone where they need to be day. Oh yeah, dinner. I guess I can't totally complain about making dinner, since I had a little help in that department. Or, at least, I thought I did.

Since I knew I would have exactly 23.7 minutes from the time I walked in the door from one kid's tennis lesson until we had to walk back out the door for the same kid's orchestra concert, I put the oldest kid in charge of turning a burner on in order to save time and get a pot of water boiling. I called him from the car, said "turn the burner on HIGH" and thought he'd be able to take things from there. After all, everyone can boil water, right? Or, maybe not right. As soon as I walked in the door, I sniffed the air and immediately knew that there was a hot burner in the house, but sadly it wasn't the burner that was directly under the pot of water. It was the one behind it. And did you know that rotini takes less time to cook than linguini? Just in case you were wondering.

And now you're probably wondering why this blog post is called "The Brown Stain, Vol. 3." There was "The Brown Stain" and "The Brown Stain, Vol 2.", so get to the brown stain already!

Okay, so while I was waiting for the water to boil, I noticed a brown smudge on the carpet. It wasn't a big spot, like the puppy had taken a dump in the house, it was small like someone had dropped a hunk of chocolate chip granola bar on the floor and then stood on it for a few minutes. I reached down, touched the still-sticky spot, smelled my fingers - and was about to ask who had been eating chocolate on the carpet - and then realized that I had just stuck my finger in a smear of dog shit. Yes, that's my life. My wonderful, glamorous, shitty finger life.

I tried to figure out how the hell it got there if the dog didn't crap in the house. Did he step in his own feces while he was outside? And if so, wouldn't that mean that there are little shitty footprints all over the house? And if that's the case, wouldn't it just be easier to burn the house down and start all over? Seriously, Oh! My! Gawd! Zach was all "No, no, see, I let him out and saw him take like the biggest crap ever. This is not my fault!" And I was all "I don't care if you saw him shit! Dude! I have shit on my finger!"

At this point, the dog ran away from me because he doesn't like it when I yell, and as I watched him run that's when I saw where the brown stain came from. Because it's pretty hard to miss a hunk of brown shit stuck to the ass of a cream-colored dog.

And I'll give you exactly one guess as to who was lucky enough to wipe the dog's ass.

The Airing of Grievances

2010-11-22T08:00:00.001-06:00

There are times when I truly amaze myself. Somehow, I managed to make it through the last five days without ending up in jail, facing charges of aggravated assault or creating a public disturbance. And believe me, I had several opportunities to become a "caught on surveillance camera" YouTube sensation:

Asshole #1: While waiting - with my turn signal blink-blinkety-blinking away - for someone to back out of a parking spot in the insanely overcrowded lot at the club, this gem of a human being sped through the lot and stole my spot. He then looked at me, smirked and said "Too bad."
Asshole #2: Moron in the hideous Escalade who ran a stop sign in the Target parking lot, glared at me in the crosswalk, threw his arms in the air and slowly inched forward while I sprinted across the white rectangles.
Asshole #3 - #5: Those people who dared to assign school projects of any kind during the holidays.
Asshole #6 - #59: The shoppers at Target.
Asshole #60: The Minnesota Vikings offensive line.

Considering that Black Friday hasn't even arrived yet and I've already witnessed some extreme crankiness in the general population, I'm going to make the safe assumption that we all have a long, perilous, patience-testing, pain in the ass, oh my god I hope I don't die of alcohol poisoning month ahead of us. So to help myself face the near-future with even a trace of optimism and happiness, I'm going to add the above-listed individuals to my already-existing list of grievances instead of following through with what I would rather do, which is to commit an act of aggravated assault and create a public disturbance, instantly becoming a caught on surveillance camera YouTube sensation.

(Originally posted on November 30, 2009)

Christmas is a month away, and for the most part I actually look forward to the kids' excitement, the parties, extra time spent with family and friends, great food, and checking out the (sometimes horrendous) Christmas lights. There are times, though, when I would happily embrace the opportunity to celebrate Festivus with the feats of strength and the airing of grievances, even if only for one day.

At a time when everyone is expected to be politically correct, polite and filled to the brim with holiday cheer, I think it would be very cathartic if just once I could tell someone that's being particularly rude that I think she's being a bitch before pushing her into the row of carts at Costco. There have been plenty of times when I encounter someone who is being completely clueless, inconsiderate, selfish, and basically stupid. I never say anything to him/her, but occasionally give the look that says, "You are an unbelievably annoying person and you just ruined the last five minutes of my life. And by the way, if looking ugly was your goal, mission accomplished!"

Shopping is especially trying on my patience. Some people are buying food that they only eat once a year, and of course all of the shelves in the grocery store have been rearranged since last Christmas, so they have no idea where the cranberry apple chutney is stocked. Instead of asking an employee for assistance, they grab a cup of coffee and wander aimlessly through the store, parking their cart in the middle of each aisle, never noticing that other people are trying to actually buy food. I have resisted the temptation to find their sought-after product myself so that I can get them out of my way. Besides, I know that I wouldn't be able to hand them the chutney without saying: "Here you go, moron. The chutney would obviously be found by the condiments and jelly. Not the pet supplies," and I'm pretty sure that this doesn't translate into "Merry Christmas" in any language.

Buying anything at Best Buy is equally frustrating, but can also be pretty good entertainment. Every ten minutes or so, someone walks in wondering where the latest DSP or PST or PS8 gadget/gizmo/doohickey/ thingamajig is, and how many games does that fancy contraption come with? Does it need any accessories? After they find out how much the console is, they usually say: "What? For that little box? You've gotta be kidding me! Well, in my day we had fun with a radio and an old coffee can. Kids these days are so spoiled!" Since most of these customers tend to drive Buicks that are incapable of parking correctly or going over 17 mph, it explains why I avoid Best Buy, and 98% of the boxes delivered to our house by the UPS man this month say "Amazon."

The list of day-to-day grievances varies depending on which day of the week it is, but it always includes people that text and drive, throw cigarette butts out the car window, tailgate, let their kids cry in restaurants, are mean to dogs, slowly walk across the street on red lights, mooch, mow their lawn after dark, smoke by their babies, don't clean their refrigerators, give backhanded compliments, and cheat.

Since Festivus isn't until December 23, I have plenty of time to add to my list, and please feel free to contribute your own list as a comment below. We can share them at the feats of strength, which will include arm wrestling, moving heavy bar stools, and picking up 35 oz. beer mugs. After all, I need to bulk up for when I finally get the nerve to shove that lady at Costco.

I've Heard Enough

2010-11-19T07:00:00.002-06:00

All moms have the same complaint -- the kids never listen. After repeating ourselves over and over again, saying the same things time and time again, it always ends in the same result: the garbage doesn't get taken out, items get left behind, the shoes aren't on the feet on time and bedtime always arrives with a surprise.

I know my kids get sick of hearing me repeat myself, yell, nag, sigh with exasperation and stomp around the house and the truth is, I'm tired of hearing them say a lot of things too.

Things I'd Be Happy

To Never Hear Come Out

Of My Kids' Mouths

Ever Again

You never bring me anything good to drink/buy me cool stuff/let me stay up late/say yes.
What are you talking about?
I don't want to right now. Maybe later.
I said okay, okay? OKAY!
Yeah, sure. Wait, what? I wasn't listening.
I don't need you.
Oops, I forgot the ____ at home/at the club/at school.
What's the big deal anyway?
Have a spaz, why don't you!
I want some/buy me this/can I have it/I need this.
It's not fair.
Hey, did you know that when you waved at Jenna's mom your arm kind of shook like an old lady arm? Weird.
I forgot to tell you about the science project due tomorrow/crappy grade on my math test/that I broke a string on my tennis racquet.
I know I know I know I know I know I know. I KNOW!
That really wasn't that funny.
Oh, so that's what's for dinner...

So here's the deal, if they stop saying even a few of these phrases, then I'll make an effort to stop ranting and raving about the full garbage can, the homework, the failure to wake up on time and the inability to remember what time we leave for piano lessons on Mondays.

Actually, on second thought, scratch that last one, because after enough weeks and years of piano lessons, even a complete moron should be able to remember what time we leave.

FYI: I HATE BARF!

2010-11-15T07:00:00.001-06:00

I always love it when I wake up on Monday morning, reflect back on the last couple days and think "Wow. That was a really great weekend. I was super productive, the kids played some tennis, I found time for a few cocktails and, for the real icing on the cake, no one barfed in my car." I was lucky enough to be able to think these wonderful thoughts today. Last week, however, not so much.

It started on a Tuesday night with Doug saying something about a stomach ache. And since I can't give him the same advice that I give the kids, which is "maybe you should try to go poop," I'm left with a limited assortment of sympathetic phrases, none of which sound very sympathetic. The poor guy gets a lot of "Uh huh, that's too bad, what did you eat for lunch, oh really wow" and eventually "____" as I stare intently at my iPad while pretending not to hear his most recent sigh/groan.

Then I woke up in the middle of the night to discover I had the whole bed to myself. Probably not a good sign.

Then I woke up at 6:00 to discover that I still had the whole bed to myself. Definitely not a good sign.

I went downstairs to discover what appeared to be my husband sitting on the couch, except this version had taken on a slightly pale greenish tint and had definitely moved past the sigh/groan stage and proceeded to the puke my guts out stage. This was definitely, definitely not a good sign, because I HATE BARF!

While he slowly crept up the stairs, I ran into our bedroom and quickly grabbed whatever I thought I would need for the next 36 hours and then shut the door tight. I briefly considered running out and picking up a 3M window insulator kit and installing it on the outside of our bedroom door to really seal those germs in tight, but then decided not to because I couldn't figure out how I would I seal it to the carpet. And besides, I was busy. I had a bathroom to burn down and doorknobs to disinfect. There is no way in hell I am allowing a stomach bug to take this family hostage just in time for the weekend to arrive.

The poor guy suffered through the majority of the day with an "I just got off of a roller coaster after eating four cans of Dinty Moore stew and drinking a 2-liter bottle of Sunny D" feeling, even though I know for a fact I did not feed him Dinty Moore Stew (he had several reminders about what he did eat: pulled pork and some coleslaw) and I don't even buy Sunny D (anymore). I spent the day running kids around, bringing the dog to a vet appointment, and trying to mentally block the fact that there was someone in my house that felt like, or was, puking. Because, I HATE BARF!

It's not like my hatred of barf completely inhibited my nurturing side and prevented me from showing any sympathy. I was more than willing to bring Doug cans of Sprite, saltines and the sports section -- and leave them outside the bedroom door. And I expressed how sorry I was that he felt crummy and told him about the crackers sitting outside the door -- via text message. In fact, I think once I even texted something like "I'm so sorry u feel crummy. Do u need anything, besides death?"

Maybe I should consider going into nursing...

In addition to the sick husband, I got a call from the school nurse on Wednesday afternoon, half-an-hour before the end of the school day, informing me that "Zoe has a low-grade fever and is coughing quite a bit. Please come pick her up." Oh goody, I thought. Two family members with two different illnesses at the same time! This is such a super day! At least I knew Zoe could be consoled in person since she was just coughing and not barfing, because I HATE BARF! And she doesn't have a SIM card in her cell phone, so I wouldn't be able to text her.

Doug felt better by Thursday and Zoe's fever was gone by Wednesday night, which should have made me happy, but instead I felt like I was surrounded by ticking bombs. Every time a kid coughed, sighed, moaned, went into the bathroom or said "uh, oh" I froze in my tracks, ready to switch off all of my senses in order to avoid the sight, smell and sound of the stomach bug hitting another family member. Because, as everyone knows, I HATE BARF!

Fortunately, the rest of the family seemed to be immune to the two diseases lurking in our home and since I had scoured all of the light switches and door knobs three times, I was pretty confident that the disease was gone. But just to be on the safe side, before we left for a tennis match that was about 45 minutes away, I folded up a bath towel and put it on the car floor in front of Zoe's booster seat. I figured in a best case scenario, it would be used for nothing more than a dirt catcher and in a worse case, well, we won't talk about that because I HATE BARF!

While we were at the tournament, Zoe passed the time playing her DS, grazing through the cooler I had packed and also taste testing most of the snacks found in my tote bag, which included a Fruit by the Foot, Nibs, granola bars, and Goldfish. And since the matches didn't end until about 9:00, she was tired by the time we left, and for some reason when the girl gets over-tired, her stomach is also over-tired which, as I soon discovered, creates nausea.

The majority of the drive home was uneventful because, as soon as her butt hit the booster seat and the seat belt clicked, she was asleep. And then when we were within 15 minutes of home, she woke up a little and made The Sound. The most dreaded, horrific, oh my fucking hell why did I ever agree to reproduce, disgusting sound.

Charlie, who was sitting in the seat next to her, said "Oh. Gross. Zoe just threw up. Oh gross. Oh gross. Oh gross..." and on and on and on as he fled to the back of my minivan.

I thought, well fuck me. She did contract the stomach fucked-upedness after all. How in the hell am I going to get Charlie to his match at 8am tomorrow morning? Or maybe she's not sick. Maybe that was just a little burp slosh because her stomach is so full of crap and she's tired. Maybe she's...

And then the gates of vomit hell opened and for a few brief seconds, I seriously considered steering the car to the right and just driving into a concrete barrier.

While Zoe continued to hurl what appeared to be at least two boxes of Wheat Thins, a gallon of lemonade, six apples, three pouches of fruit snacks and I have no idea when she found the time to eat those four Thanksgiving dinners, the boys passed the time by hanging their heads out of the car windows, gasping for air that wasn't tainted by the stench of the regurgitated contents of their sister's stomach. A couple times, Zach yelled out "Oh my god! I just about threw up! Oh my god! Gross! How's it goin' back there, Zoe?" and then "Um, mom, it's pretty much everywhere, just so you know what to expect when you get home."

Ooh, look. I managed to drive past another concrete barrier.

The last ten minutes of that drive home is kind of a haze and involves a lot of muttered and some not-so-muttered swearing, mouth breathing and the development of a fairly noticeable sweaty film on forehead. I did manage to call Doug at one point to let him know what was happening, to which he calmly responded "Oh that's just fucking great." He took the words right out of my mouth.

Miraculously, we made it home, the boys survived, I handled the barf cleanup much better than I ever thought I would have, and I repeatedly thanked the part of my brain that was responsible for coming up with the idea of putting a towel on the car floor, because as we all know, buying a new towel is a lot cheaper than buying a new car.

After she declared the whole experience as "really, really disgusting," Zoe sang songs while sitting in the tub and then danced down the hallway before jumping into bed. And this is when I realized that at no point during the beginning of Doug's illness did he ever barf and then break into song, and there certainly wasn't any dancing down the hallway. He barfed, and then continued to feel crummy before he barfed some more. This girl hurled once and was over it.

I, on the other hand, am not quite over it. It'll take me a couple months before I will be able to hear her cough and not feel a little bit of panic, and it'll be even longer before I'm able to get in the car without making a conscious effort to not breathe through my nose. I know that if I get so much as one little whiff of hurl, my mouth will start to water and I'll replay the entire horrific evening in my head, because nothing will ever change the fact that I HATE BARF!

Really, You Shouldn't Have

2010-11-12T08:00:00.001-06:00

Since Doug already told me about a couple things I could get him for Christmas, I figured he must already be brainstorming about what to buy me. And since I don't change very much much - except a few additional gray hairs, a couple extra ounces here and there and maybe a liberal sprinkling of insanity - this list remains pretty much the same from year to year. Oh wait, one thing has changed: in addition to vodka, I would happily accept beer, rum or Jameson.

(Originally posted on 12/14/09.)

A few nights ago, Doug asked me what I wanted for Christmas. While I found it almost impossible to think of things that I would love to find under the tree, the number of things that I knew I didn't want was a little overwhelming. I don't really consider myself difficult to buy for, but I definitely don't like things that are crappily constructed, emit smells, burn through batteries, or considered "collectible." Since this pretty much covers everything sold at a Hallmark store, here are a few other items that upon receiving, would require 100% fake enthusiasm, and might even trigger a little bit of anger directed toward the giver:

Jewelry in any shape other than a solitaire. This includes angels, birds, crosses, snowflakes, candy canes, flowers, snowmen, hearts, elephants, or "a key to my heart."
Seasonal dishes or serving pieces that take up coveted storage space for 11 months out of the year, only to be forgotten about and never used for the one month that they would be relevant.
A personal massager, unless the massager has human hands and shows up at my front door for two hours every Monday with a bottle of hot oil.
A "Birthstone Babies" necklace, bracelet, or keychain.
A membership to a "_____ Of The Month" club, unless the blank can be filled-in with either "Booze" or "Illegal Drug."
TV trays, because I never sit down to eat.
Any device that would be used for the removal of carpet stains.
An Ab Rocket abdominal trainer, unless you want to get punched in the face.
A Roomba
Luggage, unless it comes with round-trip tickets to Jamaica.
Scented lotion gift sets, because even though I may like gingerbread, it doesn't mean I want to smell like it.
Potpourri, in all of its hideous forms.
Scrapbooking supplies, or a gift card to Archivers.
Pajamas that don't keep me warm.
The $25 gift card to a restaurant that came free with the purchase of a $100 gift card, which I know the giver kept for themselves.
Anything written by Koontz, Baldacci, Palin, or Beck.
Items from "As Seen on TV," including Shamwow, Bump-It, Flingshot Flying Monkey, Point 'n Paint, Hanger Cascader, Forearm Forklift, or the super stylish Buxton Cellphone Wallet.
Any season of "Desperate Housewives" on DVD, because contrary to popular belief, all of us gals do not watch this show.
Small kitchen appliances, because I already have a toaster, coffee maker, and popcorn popper, and even though they're popular, I don't need a panini press.
The book "Screamfree Parenting: The Revolutionary Approach to Raising Your Kids by Keeping Your Cool," because the author of this book has obviously never spent any time with actual kids.

I realize that this doesn't leave much to choose from, and some of the things that I already asked Santa for might be hard to find at Target. So if nothing else, I guess I'd be happy with a healthy family, kids that get along, and a dog that doesn't smell. And if I still can't have these things, then just get me vodka.

Mobile Multitasking

2010-11-08T07:00:00.000-06:00

A few fun facts:

My kids play tennis. Clarification, Zoe plays tennis, but my boys play a lot of tennis.
We live in a northwest suburb of Minneapolis.
Apparently, the Tennis Court Construction Guys feel that indoor courts are an unnecessary luxury for those of us in the northwest suburbs.
After a hop, skip, jump, leap, dos-y-dos and gallop, along with jamming my foot down on the accelerator and cursing at a few other drivers for 17 miles three times a week, we safely arrive at indoor courts.
Don't even get me started on how far we drive for weekend tournaments like, for example, I did this past weekend.

When I made the conscious decision to sign my kids up for extracurricular activities, I knew that I would be spending more time in the car than if they were to just sit at home all day with an Xbox controller in their hands and a bag of Chex Mix wedged next to them on the couch. What I wasn't prepared for, though, was how much time I spend in the car. Between the tennis lessons and tournaments, orthodontist appointments, piano lessons, errands, elementary school pick-up and drop-off, more errands and more tennis lessons, it gets to the point where I don't even want to get in my car to go to the bar on a Saturday night. And that's wrong. So very, very wrong.

Most mornings, I try to be organized before I head out the door. This usually means a grocery list, an errand list, a to-do list, maybe a tennis bag or two thrown in the back and a bag of snacks in case someone is absolutely starving after they get picked up. Also, if there are any calls I need to make or emails I need to return, I bring a list of numbers. Then when I'm singing along to the radio and waiting for a kid to appear, I can get something done besides just feeling like an idiot, waiting. And waiting. And getting angry because I'm waiting. This way, when the kid finally appears, I feel productive and angry.

There are times, though, when I find myself sitting behind the wheel with nothing to do. And it's moments like these that make me wonder: what else could I be getting done? I mean, I know I can't cook a pot roast or shake up a martini, and I could always pass the time spying on what the other moms are doing in the school parking lot, (Like last year when, I shit you not, I saw a woman trimming her nose hair.) but there has to be some sort of task that could be completed to make me feel like I'm not wasting decades of my life in the car. And then I found these ideas in the newspaper:

Do menu planning. I think this means I should plan nutritious meals for the entire week that are to be cooked in my home, with ingredients that I have written down and will have time to purchase, and then served at a reasonable time. What this fails to take into consideration is the fact that during the week, when we walk in the door at 6:30 or later, there isn't a lot of time for chopping, braising, saucing and serving. It's more like nuking, yelling, scarfing and homework-ing. At least I can get my grocery list done: hot dogs, buns, noodles, jar of sauce, limes, tonic.

Make doctors' appointments. This suggestion would work for someone that hauls around a ginormous planner with their entire life etched out in ballpoint pen. And although I have a color-coded wall calendar at home (stop laughing), most people I know, including myself, have switched to electronic calendars for when we're on-the-go. Which means that in order to schedule an appointment from my iPhone I'd have to keep saying "Hold on a second, I'll see if that day would work" and then hope like hell that I don't accidentally drop the call while I'm seeing if I can wedge the time between an ortho appointment and a tennis match. Luckily, I don't have to schedule very many doctor appointments. On the other hand, vet appointments for a puppy? Don't even get me started.

Plan date night. For me, hearing the term "date night" churns up the same nausea that the term "play date" manages to trigger. And everyone knows that if you plan anything that requires reservations of any kind, advance tickets, the booking of a babysitter and the purchase of a new piece of apparel, the babysitter will cancel and/or a kid will get sick, probably all over that new piece of apparel. If Doug and I happen to find ourselves with a free Friday night and we're extra thirsty, we go to the bar for beer, onion rings, more beer and hopefully a live band where people are dancing so that we can laugh at them. And we don't call it "date night," we call it "having fun" or "getting drunk."

Pay bills. I won't be doing this in the car, since the sounds of my screaming and crying might make other people worry.

Read. The article says I'm supposed to rip out newspaper and magazine articles and throw them in a tote bag for moments just like these, and this tip makes me laugh. One of my most vivid memories from my childhood is riding around on Sunday mornings in the back of my parents' Buick. The sun was blinding, I was tired and my brothers were on either side of me, still reeking of whatever party they were at the night before. Worst of all, my parents always brought a thermos of coffee and a couple sections of the Sunday paper. The amalgam of all those smells, paired together with the sloshy suspension of a Buick sedan, always resulted in the same thing for me: carsick. So now, even though I can tolerate the smell of my brothers and even like the smell of coffee, one whiff of a newspaper in a car makes my stomach turn. And I'm pretty sure no one needs to see me barfing in the school parking lot.

Catch up with a friend with a phone call. I try to limit the amount of time I spend talking on the phone when I'm actually driving, but because I'd like my conversations to consist of more than "Green means go, Moron!" I admit that I will never not answer my phone. Unless it's that one person. You know who you are. Anyway, for those times that I find myself sitting in a parking lot for the 18th time in a week, this tip is actually useful. But it only works if I'm waiting by myself, because even though it seems like my kids never hear a word I say at home, they hear everything I say when I'm on the phone.

Write birthday cards. Since most people I know would rather receive a phone call or email on their birthday, I don't waste $4.00 (or more) to send birthday cards anymore. I suppose, though, if all birthday cards were like this one, I might reconsider...

The Mom Cave

2010-11-05T07:00:00.000-05:00

For years now, the concept of a man cave has been increasing in popularity. These man caves range from the extravagant (including such items as leather recliners, a pool table, humidor, a urinal in the bathroom, multiple flat screen TV's and, for the truly tasteless, a stripper pole or two) to barely covering the basics (a moldy couch thrown in an extra garage stall, a dorm fridge, a shrub outside the garage, a TV with rabbit ears, and a stripper pole). Either way, a man's need is fulfilled, and that need is to get the hell away from everyone and enjoy some solitude.

I recently came across an article about a designer that is trying to introduce the concept of a mom cave. After all, if guys can have a getaway on their own property, it seems only fair that a mom should be able to say adios to her family once in a while and have access to the same kind of space. A space that "isn't as extravagant as a man cave," but is decorated her way and is used "for everything a woman loves, like knitting, doing crafts, writing letters, or even paying bills."

Umm...what? The fuck?

So let me get this straight -- a guy gets to watch some football from his leather Barcalounger with one hand wrapped around a cold beer and the other hand plunged into a bag of Funyuns, and I get to sequester myself in a craft room, pay the electric bill and knit some booties? Who is the crazy bitch that came up with this concept?

Now I don't know about you, but if this is the extent of what a mom cave should be then I'm pretty sure the idea will die an expedited death. So in order to prevent that from happening, I'm going to take matters into my own hands and come up with a list of things that a mom cave should actually include.

A guard dog (that can't be bribed with treats) sitting outside the door, trained to bark and growl at everyone except: A) me; B) those that have been invited by me; and C) anyone delivering booze.
Soundproof walls.
A large TV, but 3D is not necessary because the glasses are ugly.
A stocked Blu Ray DVD library. Yes to Apatow, the Cohen's and Zombieland. No to anything that is considered a chick flick, rom com or involves Julia Roberts.
A massage chair, but not the leather kind found at Brookstone that all the teenagers sit in. I want the one that comes with face papers and includes someone with strong thumbs that is only capable of massaging for an hour or more.
A bar, complete with a bartender that can't say anything except "You're welcome" and "Would you like a refill?"
Half of the floor should be sand, like the white sand found in the Caribbean. And it should be heated so that my bare feet don't get cold.
Furniture that is incapable of accumulating dust.
An absence of all things that could be considered "collectible."
A weekly cleaning lady.
An automatically replenishing supply of kettle chips, Skittles and Twizzlers.
A self-cleaning bathroom. Or actually, if it is only me using the bathroom, then it won't need to be cleaned.
A closet that contains already completed science projects.
A phone that only makes outgoing calls.
Twice a month, someone manages to sneak past the guard dog and says "It's time for your facial and pedicure."

Now, I realize that some of these items may seem extravagant, but keep in mind that I'm willing to compromise. Like the massage chair -- I guess I'd be happy with half-an-hour. And it's not like I'd automatically expect people to understand my need for a mom cave and the indulgent items it contains. I'd explain it to them by hanging this sign on the door, right above where the guard dog sits: