Screenagers and the Money Tree

Screenagers and the Money Tree

Teens are growing up with a “give me what I want when I want it” mentality.  It’s the Google age.  Any time they want, they can find “How do I make a bomb?” or “Did Botox give my mom Adult ADHD?” automagically with their cell phone supercomputers.

“Screenagers” are also addicted to instant communication.  They jealously clutch their phones even while asleep because they may miss a 2 a.m. text or their parents might steal it and check their tweets.  

One night I tried to shimmy it out of my daughter’s hand and she morphed into an angry mutation, much like a hissing Gollum on Lord of the Rings, clutching his magic gold band, or like Charlie Sheen.  After consulting RookieParentingMistakes.com, I now swipe her phone during the night while she is sufficiently Benadrylled.  “Winniiiing!”  

Suspicious of my sudden use of “teen speak” gleaned from her texts, my daughter turned to TAMPER.COM, the website dedicated to Teens Against Moms Pilfering Everything in my Room.  Consequently, she asked me for money to buy a “parental sensor” for her phone.

“Sweetheart, I'm so sorry, but this time you need to use your own money!” I declared.  I mean, I try to teach my kids the value of a dollar.

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Financial matters are foreign to my teens.  They don’t have time to do chores to earn money during the school year, and I’d have to be on crack to pay them an allowance when their rooms look like the apocalypse.  So the money they earn in the summer, receive for birthdays and Christmas, and regularly steal from their brother usually lasts until about, say. . . right now.  

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Then they experience heinous withdrawal symptoms from not eating at McAlister’s, and their brains get a little spazzo.

The following story, which for my daughter’s sake may be fictitious, illustrates:

My daughter texted me from school in Def Con 1 mode on the day school closed at 11:30 a.m. due to impending weather.   

Teen: I want to go to lunch with friends.  I don’t have money can you             bring me some???

Me:  No.  You don’t have to go out to lunch every time school closes early.  We’re gonna start handling the money situation differently around here.

Teen: So I can’t go to lunch???

Me:        You can go, but I’m not giving you money.

Teen: Mom why???

Me:  Oh, I forgot!  You have $60 Grandma gave you for 

Christmas!  I didn’t give it to you yet.  Ok, you can go.  Keep the receipt!

She and her friends went to lunch, and I picked them up at the restaurant.  I paid for her $16 meal, knowing she had money to pay me back.  When we got home, I subtracted $16 from Grandma’s $60 and handed her $44.  She stared at it for a few seconds.

“That’s depressing,” she moaned. It’s only $44.”

“That’s the $60 minus $16 for lunch,” I said.

“If I knew I was going to have to pay for lunch with my own money, I wouldn’t have gone.”

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I’ve tried my best to be a good parent through the years.  But maybe I DID give her too much Benadryl.

Please Resolve to Stop Annoying Me

Please Resolve to Stop Annoying Me

This year I’m not making New Years resolutions for myself.  Instead, I’ve decided to make resolutions for perpetually annoying people who bother the living Ryan Seacrest out of me.  From my kids to the self-absorbed lady at the hair salon, ya’ll need to shape up.

To my acquaintances:  No more Christmas cards with brag letters about your European exploits, about following your hunch on an archaeological dig in the Mediterranean and discovering Noah’s Ark, or mission trips to develop sustainable farming techniques in Cabo.  And you even met Bob Barker?  M’kay.  

To cosmetic companies:  Don’t change the name of your make-up every three months.  When I have two minutes to run into Walgreens for “Surfin’ with Sandy Cheeks” blush, I want to be able to find that particular hue blindfolded for the rest of my life.  Those senior execs in the big corner offices couldn’t  comprehend the height of my consumer loyalty if I could find what I needed in ten seconds and have ”me” time to peruse “Celebrity Sluts” magazine.

To car dealerships:  Stop breaking stuff on my car when I bring it in for unrelated issues.  The blinkers started coming on randomly after I took it in for an oil leak.  And of course, now the gas tank door won’t pop open because I got a new tire.

To my kids:  Stop Instagramming pictures of our family on vacation so all the criminals know we are out of town.  Get OFF your phone!  And please refrain from telling dad everything I ask you not to. 

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To the obnoxious lady in the hair salon:  Stop bellowing about how you’re going to have bunion surgery.  “I won’t be able to walk and my daughter will have to go buy my Virginia Slims, but she’ll probably get the wrong brand because nobody cares about MY needs.”  That’s usually the point at which I pull out my flask disguised as a 20-ounce coffee cup which says, “Don’t ask me what’s in my cup and I won’t spread a nasty rumor about your STD.”  

To the Austin Powers-looking kiosk barkers at the mall:  Do not shag, I mean snag, unsuspecting women, wrap aromatherapy hot pockets around their necks, and massage their shoulders like serial-creepers.  If I want a stranger’s hands on me, I’ll pay for it, thank you.

To teachers at kids’ dance studios:   Don’t skankify six-year-olds with booty call recital costumes designed by Lady Gaga.  Think “Hairspray,” not “Lil’ Hootchie Ho’-down.”

        To my “Exercise” friends: Please don’t tout on Facebook that you competed in your tenth Iron Man triathlon and won the age bracket below yours.  I could brag that, through sheer will and determination, I’ve gone 22 days without eating a whole bag of Cheetos at one sitting, but I don’t scream that all over Facebook. 

I’m getting into this, ya’ll.  Now I think I’ll shoot an email with some suggestions for New Years resolutions to Ryan Seacrest.

Retirement Is Not My Style...Neither Are "Mom Jeans"

I love fall because I can return my “tankinis” (bikinis for tanks) to the back of my closet where they belong.  Cooler temperatures give me a burst of energy.  I ride my bike to get my chin waxed, I do lunges while I watch “Murder, She Wrote,” and occasionally I get bat-crazy and add a little Grey Goose to my prune juice.  

Today I casually looked through the mail—bills, the Victoria’s Secret catalogue that my son reads when I’m not looking, and then...my brand new AARP card.  Buzz. Killer.  

The “R”, of course, stands for “retired.”  That’s like being put out to pasture.  Actually, rollicking alone in a pasture sounds fun, except for dodging the cow patties.  Instead, I dodge the wicked verbal barbs of teenagers, fail to help with math projects about how many meters-per-second Cheetos fall from our balcony, and explain to my pre-teen why those couples in the movie Bride Wars are sleeping in the same bed when they’re not married yet.  

If I were rollicking in a pasture, I wouldn’t have to worry about what I wore.  Clothes shopping is a challenge for someone my age.  I can either shop in the Juniors section where I have to wear a size 37 or go to the dead-woman-walking "Misses" department.  

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I really don’t want to wear high-waisted “mom jeans,” but if I bend over and accidentally “let down my tailgate,” if ‘ya know what I mean,  my kids’ therapy is going to suck my wine budget dry.

I should just accept that I’m at the end of my forties.  Some of my friends need to do the same.  

My friends give me those "bless her heart" looks when I wear my sweatpants and Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt every day, but hons, you’re gonna get thrown off the island in those over-the-knee leather boots.  Save ‘em for the Fifty Shades of Grey party.  Ditto on the 24/7, over-stretched, tennis outfits. Just sayin.’”

Another questionable style element of the “I-actually-saw-Neil-Armstrong-walk-on-the-moon” crowd is Uggs.  They are expensive moon boots which were born ugly in the 70‘s, and after a suede remake, are still Ugg-ly.  Paired with Nike gym shorts, they are the staple of every teenage girl’s wardrobe.  Moms should also be allowed to wear that get-up too, according to no one.   

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  Obviously, a monumental clerical error caused AARP to include me in their Cougar, I mean, Codger Co-op.  I admit I don’t Tweet very well and I only recently learned what hashtags are, but I am hip enough to have heard Psy, the one-hit-wonder Korean pop icon, sing “Gangnam Style.”  My style may scream “AARP,” but the only thing that may retire soon is my Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt.