Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Breaking News: David Beckham replaces Siri in New iPhone for Middle-Aged Moms

I love Siri, the gal that lives in my smart phone. She’s like a human BFF because she’s learning to read my mind.

We’ve been together a few months, and she already understands me when I say “fixin’ to”  in my southern drawl and doesn’t even reassign text when I type “dad-gum,” as in, “the dad-gum autocorrect.”    

True “artificial intelligence” is on the horizon for her. When that glorious unveiling day comes, I’ll be the first geek pitching my Star Wars tent in front of the Apple store four days in advance, pacing my bathroom breaks during business hours, and explaining how Steve Jobs was just misunderstood to the TV reporter covering the ballyhoo.

I predict that when the hi-tech deities breathe human intellect into Siri’s soul, I’ll be able to change Siri into a male personal helper. I think I’ll name him Remi. He’ll be able to tell me where my car keys are in a British, David Beckham voice, without dragging up everything I’ve lost in the past six months. 

Remi will note my prior mistakes and notify me before I make more severe blunders, like buying Riesling instead of Chardonnay. And Apple will offer an “idiot-proof” package in which Remi will lovingly shut down his calling, texting and camera features when the user is tempted to “reach out” to anyone after multiple Patrón exploits.

When I lose the Post-it containing my Facebook password, Remi will tell me its location based on my personality, previous habits, and the fact that I’m a few fries short of a Happy Meal.  

In a buttery Beckham voice, Remi will say, “Since you’ve got a few chips missing from your nacho basket, darling, and you filed your last tax return in your glove compartment, then logic dictates that you’re using your password as a bookmark in your Fifty Shades of Grey hidden behind the dryer.”

My charming Brit will obey without an argument. He won’t always have to be right and won’t make up stuff when he doesn’t know the answer. My alluring assistant will compliment me every five minutes and never ask me if I really think I should be having another cruller. And I won’t feel obligated to commit to him when he never gives me jewelry.

According to the book of Wikipedia, Apple will soon unveil a new phone specifically for Middle-Aged Moms (MAMs) (Whopping-Humongous font sold separately). Engineers will enable Siri to comprehend schizoid thought patterns and send the user encouraging texts after it detects prolonged ranting with a dangerous rise in blood pressure.

Apple will be running “girls night out” TV ads based on the fact that the MAM demographic is motivated chiefly by chocolate and “Bacardium Limbus,” which is Latin for “alcoholic drink that may induce limbo.”

But the pièce de résistance of the new MAM phone will be Siri’s “BFF” butler service. It will call in a prescription for Prozac when your Wi-Fi is not syncing, and, like a true friend, it will even surprise you occasionally by spontaneously downloading books to your iPad—like your own secret copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.

Monday, November 19, 2012

What Mothers Say

What Mothers Say

Go on, walk to Daddy.
Please go to sleep, angel.
Go get me another diaper.
Go play on the slide.
Do you need to go potty? 
Go knock on the door and say “Trick or Treat!”

Go put away your toys.
Go watch Barney.
Please go play!  Mommy’s tired!
Go on in the classroom.
Go say hi to her.
Go sit on Santa’s lap.
Don’t go out too far.
Go do your homework.
Go ask dad.
Are you going on a field trip?  Sure, I’ll drive.
Go get your soccer bag.  No, I don’t know where it is.
Take it with you when you go. 
Why should I go to school to bring it to you?  I reminded you ten times.
Go get one out of Lost & Found.  I’m not buying another.
You need to go up a size. 
Go do your chores.

Do you want to go to the movies?  No, I don’t have to stay.
When are you going to team camp?  No, I know you don’t want me to drive.
No, you can’t go with Hannah on Spring Break.
Go take off your outfit.  You’re not wearing that.
And that skirt doesn’t go in the floor.
Will you go to the grocery for me?  Take my car.
You’re not going to the party!
All those clothes on the floor don’t go in the dirty clothes hamper.
Go get your money.  You can pay for it.
Buying Chanel requires that you go get a job.
Who are you going with to the prom?
Let’s go shopping for a dress.
You’re not going anywhere until you pick up these clothes.
Are you going out again?  I just gave you money yesterday.
Do you know where you want to go to college?  
Why don’t you stay in tonight?
Stay under the speed limit.
Your hands stay on the wheel, sister!
Stay strong.
Stay off the phone!
Why do you stay in your room all the time?
Will you stay near the dressing room and give me your advice? 
Stay with your sister.
Stay away from him.
Stay focused.
If your grades don’t stay up, the phone is mine!
Why do you have to stay for detention again?
Yes, you have to stay for the study session. 
You’re staying in tonight!
Stay true to yourself.
Are you staying at Sarah’s?
Stay in touch.  And you better answer your phone.
Don’t stay up all night.
Please stay awake.  It’s a long drive.  Do you need money?
Stay aware of your surroundings.
Is he going to stay for dinner?
Don’t stay if they’re drinking.
Stay calm.  I’m coming.
Stay on top of your college applications.
Stay positive.

Do you want to visit and stay in the dorm?
Stay close to God.
Are you staying in the sorority house?
Stay and watch The Notebook with me one last time. 
You’ll always stay my little girl.
Stay sweet, honey.
Is it time to go already?
Please. Stay.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Most Popular Posts

        Here's the summary of my most popular posts from the last two weeks:

BTW - PLEASE "Follow my blog" and "Subscribe."  Let's be clear, I'm SO not above begging.  

        Looks like "José Cuervo Might Move In" came in first. You can read it here for a good laugh.
It's about my plight with the cell phone company and Charlene, God's gift to Customer Service.


            I hope everyone had a good HALLOWEEN.  It has been very different for me and hubs the last few years because the kids are getting older.  I have a great story about that here.  I think you'll find it very touching.   It's about how the kids grow up so fast.

        By the way, since all the blogging experts say that you should write as if you have an audience of THOUSANDS, I'll go outside the box with my wonderful audience of 30 and ask,


        Is there something that gets on your last nerve, chaps your cheeks, curdles yer cream, puts sand in your craw?  

        Does it burn yer biscuit that when the kids go out and you have 1 hour and 45 min. to watch an R-rated movie, (you haven't seen one in a few years) that you always only get 3/4 of the way through because they have the gall to come back?  

        And why do they have to come back to YOUR house?  Maybe because all the other moms want to drink wine and watch Magic Mike?  Methinks.

        Does someone in your household leave HAIR on the bar of soap?  Did I hit a nerve?

        Why do your kids always take other people's advice and NOT yours?

        The bag of Halloween candy you just ate?

        How 'bout some Mom- and Dad-shaming photos?  

        Teaching your teenager how to DRIVE?  Doing that now!  AARRGGHH. . .  I just have to drink wine breathe deeply.  Did it in my SUV today—taught her to drive that is.

        Have a great week and PLEASE come back.  I'm trying to post new stuff every day!  BTW - "Follow" and "Subscribe" now.  The first 10 new followers get a bottle of José Cuervo and a straw. . .    

Wooo!  I crack myself up.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

The Magic of Ordinary

Last weekend, like good parents, Hubs and I mercilessly forced our female slaves to perform excessive and unnecessary yard work.

However,  the slaves have been known to report said parents to Child Protective Services if forbidden to watch Teen Nick on Saturday mornings.  Fine.  Hubs and I really don't want to deal with that again.  

While they were engrossed in Spongebob, Hubs and I went out to tackle the ocean of fall leaves.  The girls were supposed to follow after  breakfast.

An hour passed and they hadn't moved so Hubs returned, gently yelling, “GET UP OFF YOUR FLIPPIN' CARCASSES!” in all caps.

“This show has seven more minutes, Dad!” 

Begrudgingly, he gave in, but the girls never appeared to help with chores.

Maybe this would take a little female ingenuity. I went inside and yelled, “Girls, what are ya’ll doing?” 

“Cleaning my room,” replied Youngest, checking Facebook.

“Hanging up my clothes,” said Eldest, tweeting derogatory parent hashtags.

Right.  And I’m wearing a thong.  

Before I could scream, “Gimme your phones!” Dad returned, yelling and clapping (fact:  dads always think clapping helps).  “Girls, come outside NOW!”

Eldest crawled into a semi-upright Neanderthal stance and groaned.  The condemned inmates plodded out the door, sticking their phones in their waistbands.

“Why are they bringing phones?” Hubs asked me.  

“Let them bring their phones outside.  Otherwise, they’ll be inside every five minutes checking them," I said, proving I am a female.  That way they could stay outside and at least LOOK busy, making their father happy.  A win-win.

After thirty minutes raking leaves into trash bags, Youngest went in for a drink.  Eldest waited there, rake in hand, reading her texts.

“Why are you busy not raking?” Dad sneered.

“She went inside.  You don’t expect me to do all this by myself, do you??”

“Here, I’ll help you,” he said.  Together they raked, bending down to bag the mountain of leaves.  

As they worked, Eldest wasn’t thinking about what was really happening at that moment.  She thought she was just helping dad with chores on a fall day.  They were just raking.  

She glanced over with a twinkle in her eye and tossed an armful of leaves in her dad’s face.  Before he could yell, she belly-laughed, and he pushed her over.  She went for his leg, and when he fell, she pounced.  Youngest bolted out of the house and jumped on his back. They stuffed leaves under his shirt and crushed them in his hair, and he cackled and held them upside down.  Their faces were red from the cold, and they relished the fun of 2-on-1.

Later they burst in the house, and I was captivated by the faces of my teenagers, glowing with remnants of childhood, which are now often covered by the masks of Bored and Detached.  

“Thanks for helping me, girls,” Dad said.

“Dad, why do you always bother us while we’re doing chores?  It takes twice as long to finish,” Eldest said, grinning up at him.

“Mom, we’re all muddy.  Here’s my phone,” Youngest said, pulling it out of her waistband.  “Take a picture of us.”

Small snapshots of Ordinary, like snatches of songs, that shade of blue, the wood handle of an old rake.  But years later the memories swirl together like leaves in blazing flutters of Long-ago and get stuck in a certain flannel shirt or in the salt and pepper of dad’s graying hair.

Memories made, just raking.