Can't Wait to Get My Personal Drone

Can’t Wait to Get My Personal Drone

Recently my youngest child started driving, (Note to self: increase meds) and sometimes I feel my teenagers don’t need me anymore.  Then I get the calls from school.

“Can you bring my cleats?”

“Can you go buy a journal for my English class and bring it to school?  I didn’t buy one this weekend because Heather and Josh broke up.  I had to help her, Mom.  It’s not my fault.”

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“Can you pleeeeeese bring Chick-fil-a for my advisory group in 30 minutes?”

“Can you bring my Friday Dress clothes?  It’s not my fault that I forgot!”  (umm . . . because Friday came on a different day this week?) 

And my favorite:

Teen:  “Mom, can you bring my tennis shoes because it’s raining and now practice is gonna be in the gym.”

Me:  “I told you to take your tennis shoes this morning because of the rainy forecast . . .  and you chose not to.”

Teen:  “Mom!  Oh my gosh!   I can’t control the weather!  It’s not my fault!”

Maybe my teens still need me.  But I think they just need a personal drone.  Amazon is researching using drones to transport packages.  I could’ve used one last week to deliver a soccer jersey thirty miles away when “someone” forgot it and “someone” was going bat-crazy and it “Absolutely, Positively” had to be there in fifteen minutes. 

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One day drones will accomplish our everyday tasks, leaving humans enormously fulfilled. (Kind of like when scientists discovered Sudoku)

I can’t wait for a “Mom Drone.”  It’ll bring me my morning coffee in bed, find cute cat videos, and praise my pizza puffs.  And of course a Social Security drone will monitor a teen's social interactions because I think we can all agree that if you believe there’s such a thing as a “trustworthy teenager,” you’re an oxymoron.  (Just kidding, kids!)

Drones will also help you live longer because they’ll undo all the kids’ behaviors that drive you to your grave.  For example, on long car trips with preschoolers, a drone will be assigned to each kid.  When a child becomes fussy, the drone will be programmed to practice soothing techniques from a Level 1—humming an up-beat tune, to a DEFCON Level 1—strapping them to the luggage rack.  (Of course, in their carseats.  What kind of reckless monster do you think I am?)

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Additionally, drones will rescue marriages by neutralizing a spouse’s annoying habits—drones will shut dresser drawers, re-adjust the thermostat, and remove clothes draped over the treadmill and hair from the freaking shower soap. 

They will also benefit spousal communication.  A husband will speak into the drone and it will translate a card-carrying Martian husband’s annoying carping about “Why the heck can’t you bring the trash cans up from the curb?” into a sweet, Venus-esque suggestion about bringing the trash cans up from the curb and how you looked especially beautiful this morning and why do you even wear makeup?”  If I heard messages like that, I’d be happier and he’d get luckier—a win-win.  

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Imagine how the divorce rate would drop.  Lawyers would no longer be needed, except to handle Mesothelioma cases.

Since people would be less stressed, most psychiatrists would go out of business too.  I’d hate to see folks lose their jobs, but as long as I can still get my meds . . . 

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As you can plainly see, using drones in the household will have fantastic benefits.  For one, I’ll have a lot more time for Sudoku.

Wisdom Teeth, Then the Chicken Dance: My Empty Nest Plan

Studies claim women say about 100,000 words a day, and most men say 20,000.  My 17-year-old son says about 12—and one-fourth of those words are “What’s for dinner?”  

However, there’s nothing like a hit of Jack Daniels anesthesia to bring out the Joe Biden in people.  

Last summer my son had his wisdom teeth pulled.  We were advised to give him a “twilight” level of knockout-edness.  But, having had bad experiences, I wanted to make sure my son was dead for at least as long as a Southern Baptist funeral plus the altar call and pot luck.  Therefore, I ordered him a narcotic cocktail that could make Mitt Romney do the Chicken Dance with Nancy Pelosi at a Bruce Springstein concert and afterward ask her to go “three sheets to the wind” with him and Ann, if ya know what I mean.  

So needless to say, he was Robin Williams on speed when he woke up.

Driving home:

Him:  “Hi Mooommm.  You’re SOOO my best fwiend.  Can I have Smoothie King?  What’s in my mouf?  My wip is huge.”

Me:  “It’s gauze honey.  Bite down.”

Him:  (Oblivious. Mouth wide open)  “Why do I bite down?’

Me:  Because it stops the bleeding.

Him:  Dat makes sense.  You can get in da udder lane.”  

Me:  (Thinking) Like YOU could drive a foot-propelled Flintstone car right now.

Him:  Moooomm, what’s in my mouf?” he asks, like Dorrie in the Finding Nemo movie.

Me:  “It’s gauze.  Bite down to stop the bleeding.

Him:  “Why am I bleeding?  eeeewwww!  Mom.........MOM!  Can I have Smoothie King?”

Me:  Maybe later.

Him:  (laughing hard) How long was I asleep?”  

Me:  “Maybe 20 minutes.”

Him:  “Whad’s fuh dinner?”

Me:  “Soft things.  Maybe yogurt or jello. Do you want some mashed potatoes from KFC?”

Him:  Can I ha’ chicken?  

Me:  (belly laughing) No, sweetie. 

Him:  OK...(pause for a minute) Can I have Jimmy John’s sanwitch?” he SHOUTS.

Me:  You can have a milk shake.

Him:  (shouting) MOM........CAN I HAVE A SMOOTHIE KING?  You can get in da udder lane right ‘dere.”

Before surgery, he wisely asked me to take his cell phone away so he couldn’t act a fool and reach out to someone in a drunk-texting delirium.  I’m not gonna lie.  I’ve never been more proud of him.  

I feel certain now that he won’t publish any frat party Everclear escapades on Youtube so that no one will hire him, and he won’t have to live in my basement playing Bioshock with ten ferrets ‘til he’s 40.  

As The Parent Handbook states, now that we’ve paid for the removal of his wisdom teeth, our only remaining obligation is to get him in college.   Far away. 

After shipping three kids off to college sans wisdom teeth, all you’ll see is mine and Bobby Sue’s rear-view when we take off to the Slap-a-Ho Native American Casino in Mississippi.  That’s where all the 50-ish, botoxicated, Desperate Housewife-types in lumpy cheetah-print spandex and stilettos go.  

        I’m going early for the all-you-can-eat fresh snow crab and tater salit buffet.  After a few "Sak-a-Tonto" Sunrises and "Kumana-Wanna-Laya" Cocktails, you can find me in the lounge doing the Chicken Dance with Mo and the Navajo Funkmasters.

Special K and Chardonnay

“Why I Need Happy Hour” Friday

Special K and Chardonnay

Thursday night I finished my dinner of left-over lasagna and searched for something sweet.  I poured a glass of chardonnay because I deserved it on account of I hadn't had any since yesterday.  

        Special K Bars lined my pantry, but they’re made of cardboard, and cardboard does not go with chardonnay.  Everyone knows that cardboard is chiefly paired with Mogen David Rosé or strong coffee in the morning.  That came out wrong—I would not suggest Mogen David in the morning.  I’d love to have a big, chocolate Krispy Kreme most mornings.  Or a few calorie-inflated granola bars, but granola gives me gas.  However, I digress. 

 

Anyhoo, as I was trying to find something to satisfy my insatiable chocolate monster, I read the side of the Special K Bar box for kicks.

“Drop a jean size in two weeks (double exclamation points)!!  The Special K Challenge.”  

           Really.  I couldn’t drop a jean size in two years.  They should have an asterisk beside that.  I’m 38 (woo hoo!  Chardonnay just came out of my nose) going on 68 and I’m fixin’ to drop a Size 8 trou to a Size 6?  After three kids and a metabolism that shut down in 1998, I could really rake in the ratings on The View if that actually worked.  

So... I read the scientific "spin" on the side of the box.

MEAL #1:

Kick-start your day with a serving of Special K Cereal (ANY flavor) (oh yay) with 2/3 cup skim milk.  ENJOY with fruit.

It didn’t say how much a serving of cereal was.  I couldn’t translate the hooo-hah on the side of the box because I couldn’t translate metric into American.  So, I poured my artificially flavored Chocolate Special K into my usual cereal bowl and poured the thimble of SKIM in.  Well, I was sure the Special K people would like to avoid a big ‘ol lawsuit because of me choking on dry cereal so I poured just a Biggie size Wendy’s cup tad more milk in.

Meal #2:

“Replace another meal with a delicious Special K Protein Meal Bar, Special K Protein Shake, or another serving of your favorite Special K Cereal (ANY flavor) with 2/3 cup of SKIM milk and fruit.  

Since I didn’t have any strawberries without fur on them, I used a can of strawberry pie filling from last Thanksgiving.  That’s when I stopped talking to Aunt Billie Rae because she was being hateful and brought her “blue-ribbon” (I wish I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that) strawberry pie to Mama’s for Thanksgiving when she KNEW that I had signed up to bring it.

Meal #3:

Eat your third meal as you normally would.

This was cool.  So, my husband was out of town.  Mac ‘n Cheese for dinner.  That would not be up for debate with my kids.  I thought I needed a little protein since I was on a strict diet, so the bacon added a nice touch.  Sipping my chardonnay and boiling my noodles, I thought this diet’s working out OK.  

I’ll let you know when I’m gonna be on The View.

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Recently I laughed through a magazine article entitled “Coaching, Not Nagging, Motivates Teens,” written by a revered “organizing coach.”  Since nagging is my full-time job, I perused it while trying to guess who’s gonna get tossed off Redneck Island, which is my other full-time job.

The author reflected on the teenage stage with rosy nostalgia.  Studies actually show that ten out of ten moms agree raising teenagers feels like getting your eyes pecked out by a chicken.  Her kids may have been responsive to her “coaching,” or they were frightened to death of her, which in that case, gives me a new, profound respect for her.  

Her suggestions would never work in my house.  For example,

#1:  Clearly communicate to your teen what you expect.  

Oh wow.  Never thought of that.  If they don’t understand my expectations the first time I scream it, then they need to get the headphones out of their ears.

#2:  Teen won’t get up in the morning?  Put an annoying alarm clock as far from the bed as possible.   

Tried that.  He can’t even hear the fire alarm, but tinkling his car keys beside his ear and whispering, “Goodbye little Kia” usually works.  I’ll have to send that one to the “organizing coach.”

#3:  Place a laundry basket in the bedroom closet, cautioning your teen not to put damp items inside.  

For funsies, let’s assume my teen puts clothes in a hamper.  And I’m not sure anyone would even notice a mildew smell over the noxious soccer bag in the closet.  Or the hamster I suspect died in there.  At least he shouldn’t smell like mildew.

#4:  Keep bathroom time to a minimum.  Set a timer by the mirror.  

Um... really?  I would suggest doing a Facebook run into their bathroom at 7:15 every morning before school with a camera, shouting excitedly, “New profile pic!”   That could backfire though.  Their expertise in hi-tech treachery triumphs over age every time.

#5:  Help them clean out their clothes closet.  Make two piles: keep or donate.  

We need a lot more piles than that, like “friends’ clothes I am keeping,” “friends’ clothes I may give back after I try on,” “friends’ clothes I can’t wear around them because they don’t know I have them,” and “clothes I can only wear if parents leave the house before I do.”

#6:  Give encouragement by recognizing ways in which your teen is already organized.  

What???  Ok, let’s see.  

“Hon, I love the way you organize your argument when you’re trying to persuade me to buy you another shirt from Allotamoney & Fitch.”  Case in point:

Teen logic:  (Premise #1):  “You always give us kids money to buy
                                                    presents for each other at Christmas.”

                   (Premise #2):  “I remembered Sis didn’t get me anything
                                                for Christmas.”  

                              (Action):  “So I bought this cute shirt for myself 
                                                 with my own money."  

                      (Conclusion):  “You owe me $35.”

     

My kids effortlessly ignore my nagging, but I rather enjoy it.  It perpetuates my fantasy that I’m actually someone’s boss.  You know, I bet I’d be the first one to get voted off Redneck Island.  

I Might Like Prozac Barbie After All

I Might Like Prozac Barbie After All

I often shop at the upscale, Just Plucked Market in my suburb, but I stick out like Peg Bundy in Tiffany’s.  All the ladies wear tennis outfits or dark, rhinestone-studded jeans with stilettos.  I’m convinced everyone is looking at my hair and assuming I can’t afford to get my roots done.  I always feel a little nervous, like Aimee on My Big Redneck Vacation when all the rednecks visited London and discovered they were having spotted dick for dinner.  

Recently while shopping at Just Plucked, I noticed Prozac Barbie with her preschoolers, Babs and Ken Jr.  I saw her lips cart coming around the corner first, and she looked like Lisa Rinna/Daisy Duck perturbed with the children.  I didn’t know she was mad at them at first because she was botoxicated trying to stay calm.  But when I got closer I heard her hiss something to her son about the cookie he was eating and his expensive Polo shirt.

             

While standing at the meat counter, little K used his fingers to wipe chocolate from his mouth.  Aghast, at least I think, Barbie pulled baby wipes out of her Louis Vuitton and shoved them toward Kenny’s face.  By that time he’d already used the back of his hand, and wiped the fudginess on his shirt.  Barb was mortified.  She leaned down in her stilettos and went anti-bacterial on his cookie mess.

What’s strange about this scene?  First, I wouldn’t be organized enough to have baby wipes in my purse.  Second, my kid would’ve worn a Star Wars t-shirt instead of a Polo.  And third, I would’ve expected him to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and rub it on his shirt, like a normal boy.  If not, he would’ve put his arms around me and wiped his mouth on my butt.

Speaking of my butt and lard, I saw something freakish in the dairy section at Just Plucked—containers of Duck Fat—to buy!  Of course, I keep my bacon grease in a coffee cup in the fridge like regular people, but what do you possibly do with Duck Fat?  Maybe deep-fry some Oreos.  I’d love to ask a manager what it’s used for, but I figure he’d be real snooty like the saleslady at Glamour Shots when I only bought one slutty picture from my photo session back in ’83.

One day I’d love to yell across the aisle to the smug Regional Director of Just Plucked Inc. 

“Could you tell me where ya’lls vie-enny sausages are?  Wooo, I sure do love them thangs.  That’s some good shit right there.  They’re better’n crap on a cracker.”  

That’s going on my bucket list.

I picked up a bag of organic Cheeto balls and waited for Prozac Barbie to herd her clan through the checkout.  I felt a tad sorry for her because her make-up was running down her face in the Memphis heat.  She must’ve moved here from the Hamptons or something.  Just as I walked out, she shoved her offspring into a clown-car sized Mercedes, melted into the driver’s seat, and took a cleansing deep breath.  

Then, as I watched PB’s life unfold in her little cocoon of a car, I realized we’re all alike.  

She gave her four-year-old his Nintendo and her two-year-old her sippy cup, and untucked a bottle of Chardonnay from the hidden compartment of her suburban mom-mobile, and didn’t even worry about a glass. 

I hear ya’ sister.  We have more in common than you know.  

How Do You Grow a Boy?

        This is one of my first blog posts in 2010.  Not many people read it back then, so I thought I'd share it again. 
        It's the end of football season.  One of my friends with a Senior boy posted on Facebook that four years ago her son and his friends walked out on their Home football field as freshmen.  Last night they walked off that field for the last time. 


How Do You Grow a Boy?
 

        This morning I was on Facebook and watched a video of my nephew playing his first year of football in pads.  The boys are so little they can barely move around in the pads and helmet.  But this is the beginning of manhood.  This is where it all starts. 

        My son started playing football when he was 7 years old, and that was when my heart began to feel a little twinge of pain.  It was the realization that he was going to have to grow up.  The sweat, the smell of the freshly mown grass and the growing brotherhood among the boys mix with the magic of the hot August sun, raising them to the next level of boyhood.  They may look the same, but their demeanor and body language change into one of confidence.  They've entered a secret, masculine world where no girls are allowed and realize, "this is what it's all about."  They've used Transformers to tackle anything that came in their way. They've staged army men, who at the whistle, weaved their way around deadly land mines and escaped the enemy in hot pursuit.  Now, with the help of rising testosterone, they can make it a reality.

        I watched my little guy, and I felt that twinge of pain because I knew one day he would have to be so manly, so strong and stoic—so different from me.  That would separate us.  Now at 16, he is that young man.  What I didn't realize then is that I would be so very proud of him.  The fact that he grew up so quickly makes me sad, but my pride in the amazing young man he has become far outweighs any sadness.  He takes on responsibility and has a strong work ethic.  He loves his family and is a leader.  What more could I want?  I watch him out the window now mowing the grass and moving firewood, and I'm amazed at how much I love him.  I go to all his wrestling matches which are mentally and physically grueling.  As I watch his muscles move fluidly and then strain,  I'm reminded of how manly and strong he has become—so different from me. Thank goodness.

        When he walks out my door,  I'll feel that same twinge of pain I felt when he walked onto the football field for the first time.  But I've learned that my pride will eclipse the pain.  Confidently, he'll enter a different world and realize "this is what it's all about."  Everything he learned in football will help him succeed in his profession.  He'll succeed in life because of everything he learned from me.