Category Archives: humor

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Traveling With Women

I don’t really travel on my own per se. I went to a friend’s wedding when my daughter was one. I was gone for two days and the homestead went down in flames. Since then I’ve traveled with at least one child and/or a husband tethered to my side at all times. That is until a week ago when my book club took its first annual weekend retreat.

Females only. All adult. (Let’s try to ignore the fact that it sounds like I’m talking about a porn genre, okay? Thanks.)

Anyway, just so you know, traveling with grown women is very different from traveling with a husband and children. Shocked? Me too! Who would have imagined? Let me share my insights with you so that you can experience my wonderment.

  • The first thing I noticed was that no one needed me to suggest going to the potty before we left the condo. That didn’t stop me from doing it anyway. Every. Single. Time. The girls got me a shock collar to help me break the habit. Such a thoughtful gift. Also, no one suddenly leaped up, sprinted to the bathroom and then emerged, declaring, “I peed on the tub and a little in the potty” even after three glasses of wine.

Literate and potty trained

  • Everyone voluntarily bathed themselves and I didn’t have to wash anyone’s hair while listening to them whine, “Not in the eyes, not in the eeeeyes!” Nor did I have to comb the house for their special mermaid. I’m also pretty sure that no one yelled “I have to poop!” while in the shower, though it was hard to hear with my mouth full of wine.
  • The bathroom smelled unnaturally good the whole time we were there, leading me to believe that women defecate lavender and sunshine, which evaporates into a rainbow before ever touching the toilet bowl. Or perhaps they just knew the location of the air freshener. Whatever the case, it only served to reinforce my concerns for Hubs’s digestive system, because our commode at home consistently looks and smells like it lost an alien war.

What I imagine is happening behind our closed bathroom door. (image via prism.gatech.edu)

  • No one solved a crime, rescued anyone or helpfully pointed out potential criminals. There wasn’t any road rage or general irritability. One of the girls nearly threw down over some missing guacamole, but that’s totally understandable. Guacamole will do that to you.

Feeling despondent and about to jump? Not our problem.

  • There were extensive discussions about dietary restrictions, health obsessions and food in general. All of our dietary concerns made ordering meals a long process and in fact we were generally disliked by waitresses everywhere. On the upside, I didn’t have to take anyone for a walk during dinner, dig through my purse for something to entertain them or try to cajole them into eating more fiber.

On a quest for vegan, gluten-free, no-refined-sugar foods at the Farmer’s Market. Isn’t everybody?

  • The thing that made the single biggest impression on me, however, was the unearthly quiet at night. I slept in a room containing four other women and I woke up periodically thinking that everyone had left the room. Or died. And then I’d fall back asleep working on their eulogies. Also, the room didn’t smell like farts in the morning and nobody kicked me in the head or woke me up because they had a bad dream. This got me to thinking that there might be a whole subsection of women who are gay simply because they really want a good night’s sleep in a quiet room. Seriously, think about how fantastic a good night’s sleep is. Now look at any female on the street. She looks more attractive, doesn’t she?

Me and three delightfully quiet sleepers.

In conclusion I contend that traveling with women is all kinds of awesome. And since nothing imploded at home, I’m primed and ready for the next book club retreat. Only 51 weeks to go.

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Pathway To Suburban Righteousness

Rumor has it that our little town has a little bit of a budget surplus. California is generally against budget surpluses or balanced budgets. In fact, budget surpluses are down right unAmerican, so our local government thought they should spend their little surplus tout de suite before people started pointing fingers. They got together to decide on a cause worthy of the local funds.

Sure you can shovel that cash into education, but that seems like a lost cause. Are the children really the future? I mean Whitney Houston sang about it, but she was also shopping for some serious nose groceries at the time, so can you really take her word for it? (Crack is whack, girlfriend, and bathtubs are dangerous.)

I’m sorry, Whitney but children are for sewing sweatshirts and mining diamonds in 3rd world countries. (image via wikipedia)

Plus, if we give children a better education, they become better informed and better informed people make a whole lot of demands on their government, which is frankly a pain in the @ss for any government official. So they decided to dodge that bullet.

No, a better way to spend the money would be a sidewalk beautification project. Now I already thought our sidewalks were mildly attractive. Not that they were going to get picked for America’s Next Top Model or anything, but still, for a cement strip I thought they towed the line. But what do I know? I walk my daughter to school in the sweats I sleep in, so I’m probably not the last word in beauty. Luckily no one listens to me.

That right there is some beautification in progress.

They started the sidewalk beautification project, which consists of tearing up sections of sidewalk to cut out all of the tree roots underneath. Genius, right? They very thoroughly cut the tree roots off the tree in front of our bedroom on both the street side and the sidewalk side, so I’m looking forward to adding that tree to our bedroom decor during the next wind storm. It will give the room a more rustic modern feel, which is good, because I was really wondering what to do in there anyway.

They also tore up some of the driveways, including ours, and then blocked off street parking, which gave us a good excuse to try out that new hover-craft that hasn’t been invented yet. I got a ticket for parking on the street, but I wrote a very nice letter to the parking people pointing out that the 2002 Mazda models don’t evaporate into thin air and they kindly dismissed my ticket.

They are very serious about the beauty of the new sidewalks because when my daughter scratched a heart into the fresh cement, they came back to smooth it over. Just in case they had inadvertently missed the beauty of an eight year old’s artwork, we redrew that heart four times and each time someone smoothed it over. Apparently they really are serious about children not being the future.

Tell your kids to keep their art and optimism to themselves.

Riley was crushed about her artwork but Hubs is going to rent a jack hammer, so we’ll get that heart in there one way or another. We’re used to waking up to the sweet dulcet tones of the jack hammer anyway. Now the kids don’t have to miss it.

They finished the strip on our side of the block and WOW was it worth it! I mean the sidewalk used to just look like squares of cement, but now…well now it looks like a pathway to suburban righteousness. I’m sure bird crap will burst into flame before coming to rest upon its pristine surface. You best believe that I’m breaking out my good sweats to walk my daughter to school now.

Check it out! You wish you could walk on this bad boy.

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The Edit Button

You might not know this about me, but I can sometimes be funny. You’re shocked, I know, but it’s true.

One of the reasons for this phenomenon is that I have a twisted point of view. I see comedy in just about everything. Sometimes that comedy might be considered inappropriate and best kept to one’s self.

The other reason is that my internal edit button, the one that is responsible for filtering out potentially offensive or off-color thoughts before they enter into conversation, doesn’t work very well. So whatever inappropriate comedy is born out of my twisted cerebral cortex often rolls right out of my mouth. Sometimes it’s funny to other people as well. Sometimes not.

This has obvious drawbacks. I run the risk of offending people and sometimes misrepresenting myself as an insensitive, drunk, white trash whore. I try to remember to edit myself when in mixed company or when trying to make a good impression, but sometimes my edit button shuts off on its own. Often at unfortunate times. The larger the audience, the deeper I will insert my foot. In graduate school I became semi-famous for it (meaning I was well-known within a half mile radius of the conservatory front doors.)

Usually I have better luck with this when I’m writing, because it takes longer to type offensive thoughts than it does to say them, which gives my edit button time to engage and say, “what the feck did you just write? You were raised better than that, Missy. Go ahead and tap that delete button. In fact, just lean on it for a solid minute.”

But sometimes my edit button doesn’t engage and things slip by.

For instance, yesterday I was tweeting (as I do from time to time in an effort to reconnect with the 14-year-old girl inside me) and I wrote:

On its own, not at all offensive. Unless you are offended by bad grammar and punctuation. Unfortunately I felt the need to add this little tag:

Remorse immediately set in. I was appalled by my own lack of tact. And the fact that I misrepresented myself as some sort of morally bankrupt cannibal (as opposed to the ethical cannibals, who only eat Fair Trade people and mentor young cannibals in their spare time.)

I’m pro-homeless. Which is not to say that I’m for people being without homes. I simply support their right to exist without being made an appetizer. Love thy neighbor. Don’t eat thy neighbor. Even if your neighbor is passed out on the sidewalk. (That last part might not technically be in the Bible, but I’m fairly confident that it’s implied.)

I tried to right my wrong with a follow-up Tweet.

But really, how do you bounce back once you’ve advocated cannibalizing the disenfranchised? I really ought to fix that edit button.

**Note: If you happen to be familiar with the news story that inspired my tasteless Tweet about the nude gentleman who was shot and killed by police while snacking on the face of a homeless man, you should know that his girlfriend has gone on record as saying that he was a sweet man who often carried around a Bible and did not do hard drugs.

He sounds nice. Perhaps he was also having trouble with his edit button.

“My edit button tells me not to eat brains.” (image via dreamstime)

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Crippled Hamster Mentality

I woke up the other morning feeling vaguely insecure. Out of sorts. Unworthy of all good things in the universe. Like a giant sack of poo. You get the picture.

Something was gnawing at me and it started with a dream I’d had that I was trying to save a crippled hamster in a cow field.

I pay attention to my dreams. Often my subconscious sends me messages because my conscience is too busy making snack foods to notice something is amiss. The dream seemed harmless enough, but the more I thought about it, the more that little crippled hamster really bothered me.

The crux of my issue with this dream came down to a simple question: What did the crippled hamster symbolize?

Was it me? Had my own psyche cast itself as a disabled rodent? Was my ego that small and fragile? And furry? Was my brain the carrier of the Bubonic Plague? Seriously, what was wrong with my head??

Meet my psyche. In times of stress it’s known to chew off its own hind end. (image via Flickr & Marina Avila)

You never imagined hamsters were this upsetting, did you? Let’s just say that hamsters and I have a troubled history.

Then I got on Twitter and discovered I was down one follower. What?? @buycheapgold abandoned our Tweelationship? I thought we had a meaningful connection. Nothing lasts these days.  Twitter just makes me feel cheap and alone. Like everyone is funnier and more popular than I am. And better dressed. And less flatulent. Whatever.

I was still coming to grips with my social media insecurities when I noticed that everything smelled and tasted like metal. Being the mild hypochondriac I am, I immediately went down my list of possible causes: a stroke, a brain tumor, toxic mold, a psychological break caused by being terminally unpopular. None of the options seemed particularly appetizing. Or accurate.

Then I sneezed and sprayed myself with bloody snot and realized that I’d merely entered the stage of sickness where my sinuses bleed. Obnoxious but not deadly. I would live! And yet my realization brought me no joy.

I was tired of feeling so negative. I like having a sunny disposition. I was raised by Midwesterners. We don’t tolerate weak, insecure people very well. You can be a giant nutball in my family but you can’t sit around and feel sorry for yourself. That accomplishes nothing.

In the Midwest whiners turn to dust and are trampled by cows. (image via Flickr & Paul Williams)

To quote Tom Sizemore in the movie, Black Hawk Down, “Everyone’s been shot.”

Subtext: “Everyone is in the same boat, you giant p*ssy, so stop complaining.”

That pretty much epitomizes my family’s feelings about whining.

So I met up with my yoga buddy in an effort to counteract some negative energy. She picked out a routine for the express purpose of ridding me of bloody snot, insecurities and crippled hamsters. It involved a lot of back bends and headstands.

What I would look like if I could do a headstand. And was 20. And in the French Riviera (image via Flickr & Lululemon athletica)

I think the theory was that the brain damage that followed being upside down for so long would lead to bliss. Or the weight of my brain would crush the crippled hamster and make it stop bothering me. Either way, it was a win/win.

Only the headstand also jarred my sinuses and when I righted myself I was greeted with a great gush of bloody snot on my mat. There very well might have been a crippled hamster in there too. It was hard to tell.

I don’t usually like to display the contents of my psyche or my sinuses for an audience without the internet to buffer my vulnerability, but oddly enough I did feel better about things. I literally dumped my baggage on my yoga mat for the world to see and lived to tell the tale.

I think that’s what yoga is all about: breathing through the tough patches and honoring where you are. And looking good in yoga pants.

“I found Nirvana and a tight butt.” (image via Wikipedia)

So this is where I am right now and it’s okay. I will embrace the crippled hamster within. And feed it a grape. Namaste, crippled hamster. Namaste.

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Human Backpack

Hubs got a new work tool. He gets the best stuff.

It looks like a big ole mess of straps and buckles. Something that you would attach to a duffel bag. In fact, that’s what I thought it was until I looked at the pamphlet and discovered that the innocuous pile I’d overlooked was actually an Injured Personnel Carrier or the Human Backpack to its close friends.

(image via agilitegear.com)

Squee! Look what it does!

(image via Agilitegear.com)

Bad@ss, right? No, those aren’t conjoined twins. That guy on the back is gravely injured. Or asleep. No, it’s definitely the first one. And the guy in front is going to carry him to safety. Observe how the carrier has his hands free to fire his impressive weapon. That’s important because when people dislike you enough to shoot at you, they’re probably not going to stop just because your friend is hurt. This was designed in conjunction with the Israeli Army Special Forces and they don’t mess around.

I became giddy and hounded Hubs until he agreed to take me outside and use me as his Injured Personnel. And take pictures.

Hubs is such a good sport. It’s hard to be a serious first responder when your victim is moaning,

“I don’t think I’m going to make it. Do it for… Johnny.”

And then giggling whenever you try to hook the straps between her legs.

Will someone help this poor woman? Or at the very least get her a cute outfit and shoes?

 

A cute husband works too. We look good strapped together.

Look, I’m better already. Now Hubs can take me to the hospital or just to the mall. Shoot, if I break a toe again on another date night Hubs can just haul me off to dinner.

The uses for this contraption are innumerable. This baby isn’t just limited to close-quarters urban combat.

Have a friend who always gets drunk at parties or a girlfriend who can’t handle her liquor? Just pop one of these in your bag. At the end of the night you can take them home like the social burden they are.

How about the kid who refuses to leave the nest? The one who wants to live his life in your basement, playing video games and eating all of your food? Throw him in one of these and literally haul his @ss to college.

Your glandularly challenged child starting to sulk and whine while you’re running errands? Strap them on.

Have an aging parent with a bad hip you’d like to take hiking? Wear them like a backpack.

The possibilities are endless.

Now just so you know, this contraption does your butt no favors. It will give you a king-sized wedgie and show your posterior in its worst light, like you have the most aggressive pair of granny panties covering the lumpiest rear in the universe. Believe me, some of the shots we took from a less fortunate angle will be burned. More than once. However, given your level of injury and/or laziness, you may not care. If you’re still concerned with how your butt looks and where your thong has relocated then you probably don’t need this.

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Please note that this is not a paid endorsement. Hubs voluntarily buys this kind of bad@assery without any sort of incentive and nobody is going to pay me to write an inane blog post about this kind of equipment. I just genuinely get excited about Hubs’s toys  tools.

Also, and even more importantly, please don’t assume that my lighthearted take on this equipment is in any way indicative of a lack of respect toward the men and women who serve our country at home and abroad. Nor am I insensitive to the grave injuries suffered by many of those same individuals. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m just prone to silliness.

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Forty Three

I’ve never trusted the number 43. It has always struck me as a surly and suspicious number–up to no good.

For instance, Dale Earnhardt Sr. died in the 43rd running of the Daytona 500. Don’t watch Nascar? Me neither. But I saw the movie Cars and it’s still ominous.

Our 43rd president choked on a pretzel and during his tenure the Twin Towers were attacked by a group of extremists looking to hook up with virgins in the afterlife. Then we went to war a few times. Whether or not you are a big fan of “Doubleya”, I think we can all agree that some bad shiznit happened during his tenure. And also that he can’t handle his snack food.

Chew your food and vote responsibly. (image via a magnet someone gave Hubs)

Not convinced?  How about this: Interstate 43 runs through Wisconsin, the dairy state. I’m lactose intolerant. And I hate cold weather.

The proof is there, people!

A psychotherapist would probably tell you that this prejudice is due to my mother’s death. She was 43.

I’m not going to argue the point. My mother’s death made me strong, independent and a wee bit effed up. If you are a parent, you should go out of your way to live forever or at least until your children reach adulthood. Untimely deaths in the midst of their childhoods will screw with their sweet little brains and leave them with baggage.

Like my extreme disdain for and obsession with the number 43. And my mild hypochondria. And deep abiding love of Carol Burnett. The list goes on.

The age of 43 has always loomed ahead with a flashing sign reading “Mortality”.  It is a marker, a milestone, a year of great meaning and pathos. My 26th year, the age of my sister when she died, was another marker. But 43 is 26 on steroids.

When I had my first child, a year older than my mother had been when I was born, the age obsession kicked into high gear.  You see, my fear wasn’t so much of dying as it was/is about leaving my children. Textbook, I know. If you want to bring me in to your Psych 101 class, you’re going to have to give me plenty of advance notice.

Anyway, today I’m turning 43. I’ve hit my milestone. And since I’m knee-deep in psychological baggage, I predict that this year will be full of personal wackiness. More so than usual. I could be a bit high-strung and so I felt the need to warn you, since much of it may end up in my posts.

Buckle up, folks. It may be a bumpy ride.

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Note: my son just came into the kitchen with his pants around his ankles and stated that he is 43. Then he turned around and waddled away. How he came up with the number is a mystery since Hubs keeps telling the kids that I’m 25. I think the fact that Conor was flashing me during his statement was significant, though in what way I can’t be sure.

No, I’m not making this up. And yes, it did completely freak me out.

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Mama’s On Strike

My mom cooked a lot of tv dinners and things that required a can opener or an addition of water. I don’t remember her cooking much else. She made bread from scratch that doubled as a paper weight, a barley/green chili casserole that we all inexplicably loved and the best toast ever (the secret was pre-buttering, which inevitably caused a toaster fire in our ancient, second-hand toaster and so our toaster spent a lot of time on the back steps, smoking in the rain, much like my father but minus his cocktail.) Mom never sat down to eat with us. When I was about five years old she declared that she’d never make another Thanksgiving dinner. She kept her word.

After her death, my father carried the torch of prepared food dedication, keeping me on a steady diet of Hamburger Helper, Soup Starter, Van de Camp’s frozen enchiladas and Jello salads (he added all four food groups and any condiments available in our fridge to make it a complete meal.)

Looks and tastes like an alien (image via chloeofthemountain)

Maybe because of this, I developed a strong desire in my twenties to learn to cook from scratch for the express purpose of one day becoming one of those mothers, about whose cooking her children brag. I loved to cook and I pursued it with a singular purpose. I enjoyed pleasing friends with my meals, but always, in the back of my mind, was the goal of one day pleasing my children. Food is love.

Of course this was before I actually gave birth and discovered the futility of my plan. My two lovely progeny only approve of two spices, salt and sugar, will not eat any of the same foods with the exception of chocolate, generally distrust most vegetables and want all of their ingredients to have at least an inch of distance from any other food source. If every meal came in a fast food bag they would live their short, unhealthy lives in pure ecstasy.

Hostess products and chocolate milk are also acceptable.

A couple of nights ago I was feeling uninspired but felt obligated to put something on the table. I grilled some chicken, made some Spanish rice, tossed it together with some beans and fresh salsa and called it a Mexican rice bowl. At Hubs’s prompting everyone offered up a feeble “Thanks Mom. It looks delicious.” and started picking over their plates.

Then Hubs innocently asked, “Is there paper in this?”

Before I could answer, Conor asked to be excused and Riley spit out her mouthful, exclaiming, “This is disgusting. I don’t even care if I get dessert.”

Realizing that he had unintentionally started the avalanche of dinner protests, Hubs tried to back pedal.  “I mean the paper doesn’t taste bad or anything. I think I’m just tired and a little full right now.”

In my defense, let me just say that I don’t cook with processed tree pulp. I once made a sandwich with the paper that separates the cheese slices but I was pregnant and disoriented so you can’t count that. The paper-like substance they detected was brown rice. I love whole grains but the rest of my crew prefer their grains fully bleached and processed, which is coincidentally also how they prefer their paper.

That was the nail in the culinary coffin for me. I’m on a cooking boycott until further notice. If my mom were here I would salute her with a loaf of her 15 pound bread in solidarity.

I will continue to make sure that the kids get a fairly balanced diet throughout the day and we’ll still gather at the dinner table in the evenings to talk about our days over some sort of food–perhaps some pear and cheese or carrots and pretzels. But for now I’m not cooking any evening meals.

My children are already flying the victory flag.

Brown boxes are cool. Brown rice is not.

Has anybody else thrown in the dinner time towel? Or figured out a way to avoid it? Did it involve hiring a personal cook or a child hypnotist?

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Insane Emotional Parent Meeting

I had Riley’s IEP meeting today at school. IEP stands for Individualized Education Plan or sometimes Insane Emotional Parent. I think the meaning changes on a case by case basis. I fall into the latter group.

I tend to end up solo at school conferences and meetings because they are scheduled when Hubs is working or, in this case, exactly when the kids need to be delivered to school. I don’t like going alone. Sometimes you need to be a hard@ss and I’m not good at that. Hubs can do it without breaking a sweat, but I’m too busy trying to convince everyone in the room that I’m smart and well-behaved. It’s like I’ve never left the third grade.

“Yes Mrs. Ladich, I can use the word ‘educational’ in a sentence.”

I dressed business appropriate in a feeble attempt to compensate for my severe apprehension. Slacks say, “I’ve got it all together and am not actually crumbling on the inside like cheap stucco in an earthquake.”

Then Hubs gave me a pep talk and suggested that I bring a recorder to tape the meeting. I balked, as I do every time he makes this suggestion. After all, this isn’t an interrogation. I’m perfectly capable of taking notes and mentally processing all pertinent information. I’m a good listener. I have an advanced degree. I took psychology in college. I can remember exactly how much Infant Tylenol my children require. I’m a grown up. Neener, neener, neener.

I should listen to Hubs more.

If I had listened to Hubs, it wouldn’t have mattered that as soon as the psychologist said, “During my talk with Riley, she mentioned that she didn’t feel as smart as the other kids…” my mind immediately went to:

an image of Riley cutting class and smoking outside of the school. She takes out a switch blade and cuts the initials of a known felon into her arm, draining the blood into a tiny vial that he will wear around his neck. The felon drives up in a gas-guzzling muscle car and she jumps inside, does not fasten her seat belt and flicks her cigarette out the window, which starts a forest fire, killing two fire fighters and Bambi. Fast forward to Riley standing on a street corner in platforms and a short skirt, waiting for a customer. The Donna Summers song Bad Girls plays somewhere in the background.

If she were a French whore that would be different and somehow more classy. (image via dreamstime)

Stop it! That’s not going to happen. Pay attention. You are missing important information.

“…I’m also concerned about a body image issue…”

What??? At 8 years old??? But I do such a good job of conveying a positive body image to avoid just this situation. Did all of those times I strutted around naked, singing “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” and occasionally shouting “vagina power!” accomplish nothing? Okay maybe I didn’t actually do any of that, but I think I conveyed the same message with my general attitude. And then I imagined Riley as Karen Carpenter, dying slowing in a bed while I sang We’ve Only Just Begun over her. I started to tear up.

(I’m not kidding here. The thought of body image issues and my little girl made my @ss pucker. I had to bite a hole in my tongue to keep from losing it in front of professional educators. And as soon as school was out I had a conversation with Riley about her body, fat penguins and Disney starlets. Yes, I did touch on all of those talking points. I think it went well.)

Do not cry in this meeting! Do not cry! Stop overreacting. You are missing all of the important…”

“…but I think if we take those steps, we’ll avoid certain disaster.”

…information. AAAAAAAAAGH!

Okay, so maybe I’m a better listener when I’m not this emotionally invested in the topic. When it comes to the welfare of my kids I take a day trip off the reservation. Luckily the psychologist gave me a packet of everything we covered, which I will read while Hubs pokes me gently with an electric cattle prod to keep me focused.

“Hey man, cattle prods ain’t funny.” (image via dreamstime)

And next time I’ll let Hubs put a wire on me. Like an unstable undercover agent.

 

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Slumber Party Remedial School

I was queen of the slumber party in my youth. I don’t often toot my own horn but this was something I did well. All I needed was a Ouija Board, an inappropriate movie, some junk food and my dad’s trademark lax supervision to rock an event.

1984 was an exceptionally good year in the slumber party circuit.

Shout out to Dad’s super-relaxed parenting style. It’s a shame my children will never know what that’s like.

However, it’s been a (ahem) few years and some skills are perishable. I should probably have enrolled in slumber party remedial school, because despite my impressive resume, I spent a good portion of my daughter’s slumber party dropping the ball. By the end of the day I felt like I’d just returned from a 5 hour booze cruise on rough seas. I practically crawled to bed after telling the girls that there would be no more requests fulfilled due to my impending collapse.

The whole week my focus had been elsewhere on other obligations. When I woke up Saturday morning, I realized that precious little had been done to prepare for Riley’s birthday slumber party and Hubs would be gone all day having a big boy play date.

Big boys playing dress up with toys

I panicked, tapped into some mother-guilt, forgot my slacker mom sensibilities and over compensated for my lack of preparation with some ill-fated last minute plans.

Now a logical slacker mom might have paused, thought back to what she enjoyed at her own childhood slumber parties and realized that 8-year-old girls don’t want parent-imposed schedules in their sleep overs anyway. They have their own ideas about what they want to do. So here’s a novel idea: ask them. However, I’d used up all of my logic for the week and I was too busy nursing my silly idea that this, being a birthday sleep over, should be different and therefore more special.

Amateur.

So my plan went like this:

  • 1:00 guest arrival
  • 1:15ish head to our neighbors’ pool.
  • 4:00 manicures
  • 5:30 pizza and birthday donuts.
  • 7:00 movie
  • 9:00 giggling while pretending to sleep

It sounded like a great plan to me. I prematurely congratulated myself on being such a rock star.

Ever notice that any phrase beginning with the word “premature” is automatically a bad thing? Premature baby, premature ejaculation, premature menopause, premature gray, premature congratulations…all bad.

First of all, I neglected to make sure that Riley’s best friend could actually arrive at 1:00. As it turned out, she couldn’t. Then the girls hadn’t seen each other all week and wanted some time to bond over their Beanie Boos collection, which went right through pool time and into manicure time. Beanie Boos require a lot of bonding–must be the giant eyes. They’re haunting. The Bette Davises of plush toys.

They are so sweet, like tiny stuffed animal zombies.

My friend, who I’d enlisted to help with the manicures showed up and we forced strongly compelled completely disinterested girls to get their nails done.  I had conveniently forgotten that I possess the manual dexterity of a raccoon–just enough to dig through the garbage, but not enough to execute delicate spa services on tiny, thoroughly chewed nails. So I completed 1/2 of one manicure while my “client” complained about the horrible salon service, until my friend was merciful enough to fire me and take over.

This took us to 5:00, when of course the girls decided that they were ready for the pool. Because a pool is more enjoyable when you’re cold, hungry and sporting freshly painted nails. You could drive a tractor-trailer through the holes in this logic. Not to mention that the timing would interfere with the allotted time for nail drying and cut into the joyous partaking of pizza and donuts around the dining room table.

I started to illustrate the obvious problems with their plan when I was struck by either an epiphany or an aneurysm. Because of the pounding in my head it was hard to tell the difference. Whichever it was, I finally realized the error of my ways.

This was Riley’s birthday. If she wanted to spend it becoming hypothermic, waterlogged and ruining the manicure she hadn’t wanted in the first place, then by God, I should let her. I shut my trap, took the kids up to our neighbors’ house and plopped them in the hot tub. There they stayed until 8:30, enjoying pizza and donuts and partying like polar bears.

“Smile for the camera or my mom will make us get another manicure.”

Honestly, I think my headache and fatigue may have been my 8-year-old self trying to kick my @ss from the inside, out of frustration over my slumber party ineptitude.

What about you? Any birthday or slumber party horror stories? Better yet, any fabulous tips for my next one? Obviously I can use any help and pain reliever you have to offer.

by

On The Road With Kid Danger

Conor’s foray into booster seat riding came to an unceremonious ending last night when he opened the car door. ON THE FREEWAY. Yep, that’s right. Apparently he wanted to begin his future as a stunt man.

I thought he had lowered the window a little for air until I saw the door sensor on the dashboard and looked behind me to see that, SWEET JESUS, the door was open! I had a mild cardiac arrest and an out of body experience while pulling off the freeway and onto the side of the road.

Ever lose your cool as a parent and find yourself launching into a nonsensical tirade, filled with things you would never actually say if you were not scared out of your ever-loving mind? Things that totally undermine your position as a sane and responsible parental figure? That’s what happened in this case.

My moment of parental genius went a little something like this:

DON’T TOUCH THE DOOR!!!!!!! NOBODY TOUCH THE DOOR!!!!!! DON’T PUT YOUR HAND ANYWHERE NEAR IT!!!! YOU DO NOT EVER EVER EVER TOUCH THE DOOR HANDLE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?????? WE WERE ON THE FREEWAY!!! [At this point I think Conor understood that touching the door makes Mommy yell and repeat things. He might have also been wondering how he would possibly exit the vehicle if he wasn’t allowed to touch the door. I did successfully establish our location, however, which is helpful.]

If you EVER do that again, I will tan your hide. [I did actually use this phrase. Apparently it was a good time to introduce the kids to cowboy terminology.] You will find out what “spanking” means, young man! [What, because I would define the word? Or would I (shudder) make him use the dictionary by himself?]

Do you know how dangerous that is??? [Obviously not or he wouldn’t have done it, so I decided to clarify, using concepts beyond his grasp.]

You could have been killed! If I’d had to swerve, or stop suddenly or been hit by another car, you would’ve fallen out and… [dramatic pause while I searched for a slightly less graphic way to say “been squashed under the wheels of a bus.”] been killed! Killed! [redundancy is key for emphasis.] Do you understand me, Conor? Killed!

You are going back in your baby seat until you are old enough to understand that sitting in a booster seat comes with responsibility. [He was probably wondering if responsibility was something akin to chicken nuggets and if it came with a side of french fries.] You have to sit up in your seat with your back against the thing. NOT leaning forward. NOT sticking your hands out the window. And NOT touching the door handle! [Sometimes when I’m very upset and flustered I lose words and can’t finish ideas, so it’s best to shut up and settle into a brooding silence until I’ve calmed down, which I did at this point.]

Conor was so impressed with my bad@ass mama lecture that he promptly lost consciousness from fear. Or possibly awe.

I took this picture when we were parked safely in our driveway.

Note: Let me preempt the onslaught of bad mother, hate mail by saying that, though Conor does meet the minimum height and weight requirements for booster seats in the state of California, I fully agree that he is not ready to be in one. I jumped the gun and overestimated his maturity. Also, I had activated our child safety door lock on Conor’s side to thwart any high-speed escape attempts, but the switches are on the individual doors and someone, probably Stuntman Junior himself, must have deactivated it.

I put him back in his car seat today. And hermetically sealed his door. And shot him with a horse tranquilizer. Because I’m a good mother.