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.

putdowntheurinalcake.com

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.  

macotar.blogspot.com

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.”

wealthforteens.com

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

Vital Warnings, Not That I've Ever Done This . . .

Recently I’ve shared various resolutions people should make this year so as not to annoy me.  Conversely, I’m now warning others about things they should NOT do this year.  I’m a giver that way.  

To maintain the high level of scientific accuracy that my readers expect, this list is based on personal experience and meticulous testimony of people I found on the internet.

Do not mosey barefoot through a cow pasture in your underwear after ingesting Benadryl and several Solo cups of "fruit punch" at a bonfire (....it’s complicated).  

           

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When the head of the school talent show phones you at the last minute to state that your daughter can’t be in the show because the song she’s practiced dancing to for three months is “inappropriate,” don’t scream at her until blood pools in your eyeballs.  First determine whether she’s the sweet school chaplain who, furthermore, is about to birth a baby any minute.

Do not be a nimrod and go to the Ladies’ Room with your cell phone in your pocket.  Even if you have to put it on the floor.  At Chuck E. Cheese.

If you are a man over forty, there is no justifiable reason to wear Vans.

Do not assume a male is listening to a female just because he is looking her in the eye.  He is thinking about her anatomy, caulk, or her anatomy.

Do not assume a teenager is listening to an adult just because he is looking the adult in the eye.  The teen is merely planning a diversion to facilitate the quickest escape possible.  Ideally, with explosives.

Do not give in to the temptation to sing karaoke in a bar if you look around and think to yourself how unbelievably “hot” everyone is.

After eating raw oysters at Daryl’s Television Repair & Crab Shack, do not go deep-sea fishing for a day—or four.

In school assembly when they announce your seven-year-old son won the city chess championship, don’t pump your fist and scream, “BOOYAH!  ‘Yo Face!!!!” at the Poindexter who coaches the school chess team and who asked your son to resign because he’s “academically not ready” for chess. 

Do not disclose on a first date that you are a “Trekkie” and that the Klingon Carpaccio at Starfleet conventions has really gone downhill since Gene Roddenberry died.

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Do not warn your two-year-old NOT to eat a candy cane off Target’s bathroom floor.  Or your ten-year-old NOT to put his hand through a chain link fence.  Or your sixteen-year-old NOT to date the Goth loser driving the van with curtains on the windows.

On a school field trip, do not tell your group of kids, “Gee, our house has NEVER been rolled!”

My goal is to make my readers’ lives easier and to help them avoid stumbling into pits of social quicksand which can result in them being called hurtful names, like “head case” and “nutjob” by the pretentious PTA moms who wag their heads at you and who no longer include you in their weekly, freaking Starbucks group (. . . . it’s complicated).

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.

Solving World Problems One Riblet Basket at a Time

Solving World Problems One Riblet Basket At a Time

This time of year many men get together with friends, building bromances watching basketball. 

Unlike women, men in groups engage in competitions to determine their male superiority over the losers in their herd.  Men are very self-conscious about their manhood.  That’s why they must constantly check to see if it’s still there.  

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Studies show men talk to each other about four subjects: work, women, sports, and caulk.  And they’re concerned about things women find irrelevant.

For example, after I had lunch with a new friend Charlene, my husband asked me what her husband did for a living.  I looked at him like he’d just asked me who won the Heisman in 1970 (like I was even BORN then. . . Wooo hooo!  Wine just came out of my nose).   

I shrugged.  “Seeing as how Charlene ordered a Mai Tai and was uneasy until she balanced the negative energy of her Riblet Basket, I presume he’s a feng shui love doctor.  Geez!  HOW the heck should I know?”

My sistah girls and I also meet occasionally to discuss Ryan Reynolds and other global issues—like if they’ve ever accidentally passed gas doing the Downward Dog.  Or if, while studying for a college exam, they’ve ever yelled out during Miami Vice, “Cuff me, Sonny Crockett!  I’ve been bad!”  Not that I’VE done that.

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Reliable sources from Ripley’s Believe It Or Not! state that women speak three times more words per day than men.  And when together, females speak in a “stream of consciousness” manner about infinite topics.  The chemicals responsible for this are estrogen and sometimes tequilaphrine.

On a recent outing to Taco Loco, my friends and I verified Ripley’s theory.  We began discussing female speech patterns and continued in order:  male pattern baldness; Matt Lauer; why did they replace Ann Curry on The Today Show and is she three-quarters Asian; actually somebody heard she’s Thai, and in her native language, “Ann Curry” means “sum dum dip stik,” and why on earth would a mama name her baby that?

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Then we talked about evil mamas; that heinous woman Casey Anthony and her poor little girl she smothercated; poor Honey Boo Boo and how her mama’s not doing her any favors either and are they really THAT redneck; how they ride four-wheelers through the woods and dumpster-dive; how somebody’s sister went into the woods once and saw a humongous snake and killed it with a nearby hoe—which brought us to Britney Spears.

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Then it was cheese dip gives me gas; gas prices; Iraq; is Iraq close to Africa; isn’t that where Obama’s daddy’s from; why are women HORRIBLE at math; Obama’s daddy abandoned him and that was pretty “trashy”; and then Britney Spears.

Men and women socialize differently, but spending time with friends always results in clarity and a renewed sense of who they are.  I hope Ann Curry, being unemployed and all, makes time to Jazzercize with her peeps, Queen Latifah and Richard Simmons, and discovers a new sense of who she is—a smart, independent journalist who’s three-quarters Asian.  I wonder what the other half is.

Embarrassing My Teens is Sweet Revenge

"Don't make me come back there!" Day

Embarrassing My Teens is Sweet Revenge

My teenagers dream of me morphing into an invisible valet that drives them around, keeps the fridge stocked with chocolate milk and, for God’s sake, doesn’t talk to their friends.  

My kids say I embarrass them.  I’m not sure why, on account of I try to be cool.  Ya’ feel me?

But that’s life.  I’m entitled to embarrass my offspring until my last breath because of all the toddler tantrums they threw and the sibling fights I had to break up in church which caused me to cuss in front of the preacher.

Parentingideas.com.au

Apologizing to store clerks used to be my full-time job.  Once, in the grocery store, I turned around for five seconds and my two-year-old dumped a whole bottle of Hersheys chocolate syrup over his head.  I figure that gives me the right to pucker my lips and throw up a few gang signs when we take group pictures before the Homecoming dance.

I don’t think a kid should complain about her mom embarrassing her unless that kid can pay the mortgage.  When I’m driving and jammin’ to Prince, my daughter should just put on her Ray-bans and silently slink down in the car like every other teen as I get my raspberry beret and my Dance Fever on.

blog.anniefox.com

When I drop my daughter off at the movies and she walks toward her friends, I like to crank up Justin Timberlake and pretend to rope the girls disco-style with my air lasso and drag them back.  You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout if you boogied to You Dropped the Bomb on Me back in the ’80’s, word.

The other day I was horrified when one of my friends got in my car and almost barfed due to the mildew smell from a bag of wet towels my daughter brought back from camp and left under the seat for a week. 

So the next time I drove her and her friends to the mall, I decided the wet towel humiliation gave me free license to follow a teenage driver into the parking lot, pull up beside her, and scold her for incompetence and for almost hitting me.  My daughter, hyperventilating, could hear the lonely clang of my hammer nailing her coffin shut.

I’ve blocked out of my memory many occasions in which my children have embarrassed me.  That’s how moms avoid slipping off the precipice of sane into the swirling maelstrom of manic.  However, I can usually recall any incident involving law enforcement.

Years ago a state trooper pulled me over for speeding, and I assured him that I usually drove under the limit.  

Making small talk, the deputy peered through the window and asked my five-year-old son, “Is this your mom, buddy?”

He looked straight at the officer and said, “Yeah, and don’t believe her.  She speeds all the time.”

Two hundred fifty dollars later, I think I’m entitled to scream his family pet name during soccer games any time I darn well please.

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The next time my embarrassed kids wish I’d develop superhero skills and disappear into the woodwork, I’ll just use my sweet air lasso skills and drag them back to reality. 

José Cuervo May Move In

Prozac Monday

José Cuervo May Move In

I received a notice from my cell phone company that I owed $376—last month's bill and this month's.  I sent a check last month, but they don't have a record of it, and my service is in grave danger of being disconnected.

My daughters would be inconsolable if they knew because their phones are connected to my account.  If one goes, they all go. With no communication method (using house phones = social suicide, unthinkable), my teenage girls would scream and run blind-bat crazy to the corner of Savage and Psychotic like they did when I lied and told them that Netflix wouldn’t be carrying Gossip Girl episodes anymore. They’d never know if Chuck Bass and his girlfriend would ever find a suitable third for their threesome.  That tall tale was sweet revenge on account of them wearing my nice boots to the muddy Corn Maze.   

I’d rather get a bikini wax from Phil on Duck Dynasty than call the phone company, but my husband wrote on the bill in all caps to “TAKE CARE OF THIS.”  I don’t know why he feels the need to yell.

While I waited on hold fifteen minutes, I imagined that all the operators were returning from their “Margarita Monday” lunch at Taco Loco. 

“Margarita Monday” was likely how my check disappeared in the first place.  Some peon with a company ID probably used it to buy rounds of queso and Corona at Accounting’s last “Kiss My Assets” conference.

Charlene, God’s gift to Customer Service, finally came on the phone.

“ThisIsCharlene,MayIHaveYourNameAndPhoneNumber,” she asked without listening, just like my kids, but with more José Cuervo.  “Thank you. What’s your problem?”

“I got a bill for $376 from you, which is last month’s bill plus this month’s.  I already sent a check for $190 for last month.  My bank says it cleared a while ago by your company.”

By the crunch, I could tell she was finishing her nacho basket. “We do not have record of the payment, ma’am, but I will credit your account the $190,” said Mr. Cuervo.

“Really?” I said.

“Of course not,” said Charlene. 

“Well, I’d like to speak to your manager,” I said.

“She’s ‘in-disposal.’  Can’t come to the phone right now.”  I might have detected a slight slur in her speech.  “There’s nothing I can do, ma’am. There’s no way I can tell if it was really our company that ‘posited your check, IF you sent one,” giggled Charlene.

  I reached for my corkscrew.  “I’ve never heard an attitude like that!”  I said.  "Even when my computer broke and I had to talk to those condescending Dell techno-nerds in India!  I’m going to call your supervisor about this. What is YOUR name again?”

“Brenda.” 

        I tried again, and this time I got a nice girl from Georgia.  She listened to my story and wrote up an official inquiry, like a polite southerner.  

After the cell phone ordeal, I realized I’m too impatient to be in a Complaint Department.  On Mondays Charlene may spend her lunch hour with José Cuervo.  But if I were answering calls from mo-rons all day, he’d definitely have to move into my cubicle.

Do I Still Have the Receipt? You're Kidding . . . Right?

Do I Still Have the Receipt?  You’re Kidding....Right?

Years ago while shopping, I noticed my 18-month-old was barefoot.  She hated shoes, and somewhere among the aisles she had shed her Barney sandals, bought at the same store a month before.

Granted, Velcro is the greatest invention of the 21st century—how else would one secure the fly of men’s swim trunks?  However, Velcro on kids’ footwear was the bane of my existence.  Easy on, easy off.  

We could’t find the sandals, and we were late meeting friends at the zoo.  So we hit the shoe department to buy something cheap.

I saw a pair of Barney sandals just like my daughter’s.  Same size.  They even had my dog’s teeth marks on the sole.  An employee must have put them back on the shelf, thinking they were new.  

I could’ve walked out with the shoes, but a blue-haired clerk was watching me like Lindsey Lohan in a jewelry store.  She resembled Maxine, the grumpy old lady on greeting cards.  Since she’d raised children before the miracle of hook-and-loop technology, she didn’t understand my frustration at a toddler unstrapping her Velcro shoes 83 times a day.  

Chuckling, I recounted the incident to Maxine.  Frowning, she asked me for the receipt.

“I’m pretty sure I lost it,” I said.

She assessed my baggy sweatpants and yesterday’s mascara and shot me a “that’s-what-they-all-say” look.  If I had a dime for every time I’ve seen that condescending look, I’d slap a For Sale sign on the kids, board a plane incognito, and relinquish my muscles to the capable hands of some Italian masseuse.

After I'd originally bought the shoes, I remembered the receipt falling out of my purse in the store’s bathroom.  My three-year-old got on her knees and sucked it up with her lips like a vacuum cleaner.  My expression of sheer horror didn’t scare her.  She’d seen that look on my face a million times when the grocery store was out of my favorite crullers.  She crammed the dirty ticket back in my purse. 

                                                          

During my conversation with Maxine, my preschoolers ran amok pointing at all the sales associates, like Donald Trump from The Apprentice, and yelling, “You’re fired!”  

Maxine, judging me mercilessly over her reading glasses, told me to take the shoes off my daughter and take my children outside where they belong. 

Really?  With that comment, Maxine was officially up in my bizness, seriously underestimating my “back-in-your-face” skills.  

“Oh, wait, I think I do have the receipt,” I said, gingerly pulling it out of my purse along with the hand sanitizer.  “My daughter sucked it up off the store’s bathroom floor.”  I added nonchalantly, “She says it has brown spots on it because she’d been eating from the Nutella jar that we’d just bought.  But I can’t be sure.” 

I pushed the receipt into her hand where it stuck like Velcro.  My crew and our Barney sandals swaggered away.

  

.

I thought I delivered a pretty clever payback, if I do say so myself.  I bet Donald Trump would love me on The Apprentice.

Is a Lack of Gray Matter That Hysterical?

Is a Lack of Gray Matter That Hysterical?

  My friend, Angela, has three kids and is continuously frazzled. Last spring, she dropped off her second-grader, Marcus, at his Catholic school for May Crowning, a religious ceremony dedicated to Mary. She dressed him in a suit and purchased the requisite bouquet of flowers to take to class.   

Angela’s memory is “over the hill,” but she remembered May Crowning, and she felt pretty darn “mother superior” about it.  She silently gloated, I have got it goin’ on! I’m sorry you other moms aren’t as organized as me. I’ve come a long way since all that Show and Tell business from September.  

The previous fall Angela forgot about Show and Tell so, of course, she gave Marcus an eyelash curler from her purse. A girl in his class used it and pulled out all her eyelashes because they stuck to the mascara caked on it. His teacher, Mrs. Uppington, who overblows everything like Stephen Spielberg, flew into an unnecessary panic. Angela thought, What’s the big deal? I mean, eyelashes grow back.

Then there was that incident on Career Day. Little Doogie Howser swiped a bottle of blue pills from his parents’ bedroom nightstand as a visual-aid for his presentation. 

The next day, he announced to his class, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this “scripshun” is for Vy-ag-rah.” 

Mrs. Uppington overplayed a case of trauma, and Angela’s husband can’t show his face at parent/teacher meetings anymore. 

After dropping Marcus at school, Angela enjoyed a latté to celebrate her alpha female dominance over the other loser moms. Shortly, Mrs. Uppington phoned.    

“Mrs. Peterson, are you aware that today is April 27th?”

“So??” she said. Here comes Spielberg.

“Well, I just wanted to inform you that you sent Marcus to school today dressed up and with flowers . . . ”

“Yeah??” Angela said, annoyed that her latté was getting cold. 

“And as a rule, Mrs. Peterson, May Crowning occurs in, ahem, MAY.”

A few hours later, Angela slinked through the lobby with Marcus’ school uniform, past the PTA Taliban moms who were at a school meeting and had heard about her memory malfunction. She also needed to check her fourth-grade daughter out of school for an appointment.

“Ha! I guess I thought they moved May Crowning to April,” Angela joked as she greeted the grinning moms. “It’s SO Friday! Ready for the weekend, ya know? Wow, what a hoot! Soooo, I’m mostly here to pick up Claire for an orthodontist appointment.” 

They laughed together a little longer, and Angela headed home. Great. I had to face Miss Uppity AND those Super Sally’s Gift Wrap groupies.  A few miles away, she worried she’d forgotten something. The orthodontist. She forgot to pick up Claire.

Angela slipped back into school and the PTA extremists were still in the lobby doubled over, laughing hysterically at her lack of gray matter.

I bet those Taliban moms experience their fair share of brain cramps. So they should watch out. Angela might devise a radical plan of her own and drop an undisclosed number of little blue pills into their husbands’ sweet tea glasses at the next school auction.  

The Evolution of Dads

I am reposting this from last Father's Day.  ----------

The Evolution of Dads

What happened to the good old days when Dad came home from work and Mom handed him a newspaper and said, “Here’s your slippers?”  Nowadays after work, the kids are at soccer and piano, Mom works late, hands Dad a Lean Cuisine and says, “There’s the microwave.”  Poor guy.  The rules changed as fast as you can Google “Women’s Movement,” and Dad had to learn to change the baby’s diaper as well as change the oil in the car.  

But a funny thing happened.  The uninvolved Dad realized he really liked kissing chubby little feet as he changed diapers.  And he enjoyed playing Barbies and Pirates with his kids instead of watching the Cowboys on TV.  The modern Dad is solid as a rock—and rocks at Wii Hoola Hoops.

Mom may be better at handling girl drama, but no one is better than Dad at lining up army men for battle and initiating ticklefests.  He rides with you on roller coasters, but not the rides that spin.  And he sculpts cool sandcastles at the beach and lets you bury him in the sand. 

Regardless of family dynamics and the demands of his job, he’s never too busy for his children.  He’s there to teach his son how to throw a fastball and how to survive when life throws him a curve. And he’s there to kill bugs and blow bedtime kisses. 

The modern dad knows how to fix a flat tire and fix his daughter’s broken heart.

He makes tee times for his son and makes time for tea with his little girls.

He teaches his daughter how to bait a hook and how to determine whether her date to the prom is a bottom-feeder.

He tells his daughter scary stories at nine and scares her boyfriend half to death at sixteen.

He checks for leaks in the attic and monsters under the bed.

College football is something he lives for, but he misses the game because Christmas lights are something his kids can’t live without.

He sacrifices luxuries in his own world for his kids’ first trip to Disney World.

He paints the whole house and paints his daughter’s fingernails.

He knows how to call a duck and call his mother just to say hi.

He bounces his toddler on his knee and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And he’ll never ask for a pat on the back for simply doing his job.

Whether he is old-school or modern, the moment a new Dad holds that squirming bundle in his arms for the first time, a powerful pride surges through his veins, calling him to be part of something larger than himself.  It awakens a protective and noble facet of his identity which first blossomed when he was a boy fighting fierce backyard battles with his trusty pirate sword.  He’s his daughter’s first Prince Charming and his son’s infallible Superman.

Dads have transformed through the years, but some aspects of fatherhood never change.  Dad never misses an opportunity for a little friendly competition.  Mom is the one who warns you not to take that jump on your bike, but she doesn’t know Dad is the one who dared you to.  Dad races you to the house but always cheats and takes off before he says, “Go!”  He always wins the “can’t-keep-a-straight-face” contests, but he helps you win prizes at the fair.   

Though Dads have evolved, two irrepressible DNA traits remain from the vestiges of the caveman.  #1—Dad is always right so do not bother arguing with him.  #2—If he doesn’t know an answer, he will make stuff up.    

Predictably, as his toddler morphs into a teenager, Dad’s tender love often evolves into tough love as he imposes sanctions on cars and cell phones.  From Ward Cleaver to Al Bundy, Dads have repeated the same mantra to their irreverent subordinates—“When you grow up you’re going to have a rude awakening,” “Nobody cares why,” and “If you don’t like it here, go find another family!” 

I have a family of my own now, and I have etched Dad’s nuggets of wisdom into the bark of our family tree. When I grew up, I DID have a rude awakening, I realized my boss DOESN’T care why, and everything Dad told me was true, except the stuff he made up. 

You Might Be a Frazzled Mom If....

You Might Be a Frazzled Mom If...

Jeff Foxworthy, the Georgia-born comedian, has gained stellar success poking fun at rednecks.  

From Michigan to Mississippi, everyone has a relative like uncle Darryl who lost a tooth at the family reunion opening a beer bottle or a cousin Junior who had to take a toothpick out of his mouth for his wedding pictures.   

Jeff’s humor is steeped in the South, and he satirizes the culture he knows best.  Like Jeff, I write about the strange circle of sisterhood I know best—mothers, the women who walk on water and run on adrenaline.  To mirror Jeff’s “You might be a redneck if.....” mantra, I’d like to share my own maxims of motherhood.

You Might Be a Frazzled Mom if........

... you’ve never had tulips coming up in your yard in the spring.  You would’ve had to plant them in October.  Like that’ll happen when the kids actually bring the garbage cans up from the curb all the way to the house.  Or when you vacuum behind the dryer.

... you haven’t noticed the phrase “Honk if you think I’m dirty” written by your 10-year-old in the layer of grime on your SUV’s back window.   After three weeks, you’re wondering why the guy at Starbucks always winks at you when he hands you your Grande Latté at the drive-thru.

... “Pulling yourself together” means wearing a baseball cap and lipstick.  Then maybe no one will notice your zits from not washing your face at night or the baby spit-up down your shirt.

... you don’t have any recipes without cream of something soup and Ritz crackers on top.

... you never remember anyone’s name, but you don't remember meeting them in the first place.

... stealing babysitters doesn’t bother you at ALL anymore.

... you will never, under any circumstance, sit on the bottom bleacher at your kid’s basketball game because the fluorescent light reflects off your gray roots, bathing you in an iridescent aura that makes you you look fatter.

... after a harrowing grocery store experience with a baby and two toddlers, you have very low patience with the rotund bag boy who comments that the 5-Hour Energy drink you’re buying will kill you.  You’re not even ashamed that you’re thinking, “So will Cheetos and Ding Dongs, pork boy.  Go away.”

... you have to compose your daughter’s term paper due Monday on an Arby’s napkin as you drive eight hours home after her club soccer team won the State Championship,  and she’s passed out in the back seat.  The school mandates that you write it on “The Downside of American Competitiveness.”  ....  Freakin’ liberals. 

... your car insurance went up when you hit a biker while driving to your son’s game because you sprung into the other seat to keep his water jug from falling over in the passenger floorboard on account of it would leak all over your carpet and smell like mildew tomorrow.  I mean, the biker’s ok.  You wonder if your insurance company has ever smelled mildewed carpet.

... your friends want to give you a make-over for your birthday because obviously you don’t know how to apply make-up.  The real reason you look like you put on your eye liner during airplane turbulence is that while applying it, your Yukon’s back right tire ran over the curb when you pulled out of Sonic and a hot tater tot fell inside your shirt.  

... you never wear jewelry although you have tons.  People give it to you because they figure you don’t have any.  In reality your necklaces get caught in the shoulder strap of your seat belt when you turn around to slap the kids in the back of the car.

... if your idea of a fantasy vacation is a week alone with a case of Chardonnay and “Sex in the City” DVD’s in the Motel 6 down the street.

... your clothes smell like mildew because they’ve been left in the washer for three days.  You blame kids.

... you’re in the grocery store in front of the milk and your three-year-old son says, “Baby Jenna doesn’t like this milk, mommy.  She only likes your milk, right?“   Barbie is standing nearby in all her perkiness and notices that certain areas of your baggy gray t-shirt are wet because your son just mentioned that.

... the clicker that unlocks your car has never worked because it’s been dropped in public toilets so many times due to holding your purse, a baby and a diaper bag while trying to go to the bathroom with no lousy hooks in the stall.

... you never back up and adjust when you pull into a parking space with your 25-foot SUV.  If a jerk pulls into the narrow space beside you and dings your door, you pull your daughter’s softball bat out of the back and go Carrie Underwood on him. 

...you’re ok with your kids watching eight hours of movies driving to Florida.  Seeing corn fields and signs for Rock City did not broaden your horizons as a kid.  They can see kudzu and cows in their geography books, and while your husband drives, you can read your “Celebrity Sluts” magazine in peace. 

And last but not least......

... you don’t proofread your emails.  Your scathing email to the school principal about his being too busy to meet with you says, “You should spend a day in MY shoes!  I’d like to swap wives with you to show you what busy IS!” 

        OR...

...you email the College Admissions office telling them about all the wonderful community service your daughter has done—like delivering Meals on Wheels to all the little old ladies who are too sick to leave home.  It reads, “For two years she has delivered food to all the slut-ins in the whole church.”

        OR...

You email your best customer cheerfully thanking him for his order.  “We’re expecting your order to shit today.  I’m surprised it hasn’t shitted yet.”

So, if you’ve answered “Yes, yes!!  That’s ME!” to any five of these examples, then congratulations—you’re a forgetful, under-appreciated, just-keeping-your-head-above-water example of a wonderful mother. You’re a member of an insane, loud, selfish, loving and loyal family. 

So when times get tough, treat yourself to a bottle of Kendall Jackson in the Motel 6 for a week.  No more nagging and negotiating, complaining and cleaning, no more belly laughs from kids farting and blaming the dog, and no more cozy bedtime conversations.  You just might come running back.