How Mom's Indecision Could Change History

“I Like a Good Rant” Wednesday

How Mom’s Indecision Could Change History

Since I'm frazzled, making decisions, even small ones, paralyzes me.  However, I’m quite talented at making decisions for friends.  

At the mall a friend asked me which running shoes she should buy—the cool, expensive ones, or the cheaper, boring ones with more reflective areas because she runs on busy streets at night.  

Without a hitch between bites of my giant pretzel, I said, “Hon, be safe. Get the cute ones.”

Let’s face it, tens of people look up to me, so making decisions regarding myself is complicated and the stakes are high.  

Let’s say I’m buying a dress for a charity event. My choices are:  a dress I LOVE in a department store or one I don’t love in a small boutique.  No one else at the event will likely be wearing the boutique dress.  But I might see four sluts women wearing my department store dress, and all those Real (Snooty) Housewives of the Heart Gala will think I shop at the “cheap clothes for cheap girls” store.  

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Deciding on paper plates is also a serious issue.  Dixie plates are more expensive than the store brand but Dixie has a few more in it.  If I can’t figure out the best deal, I become panicky with a prickly sensation, and my cart heads to the wine aisle.  Although the prickly sensation could be caused by squatting down to check prices in sweatpants covering legs that haven’t been shaved since Labor Day.  

Nowadays grocery stores label shelves with the cost per paper plate.  That’s a little condescending.  

        Do I look like I can’t figure it out on my own?  Well, I can’t because I have normal girl genes, and that type of calculus is hard for me, especially word problems.  But they shouldn't automatically assume that just because I walk around the grocery store aimlessly in pink pajama pants that I don’t know the paranormal algorithm of explicit percentages like boy people.  

        My left brain (along with the “fun” part, according to my kids) was destroyed by watching ’70’s TV shows and stressing about stuff like whether Carol Brady would discover that Marsha and Jan were hiding reefer in their room.

Imbringingbloggingback.blogspot.com

Here’s how my brain works:

Me:  These store brand paper plates are five cents cheaper.

Angst:  How do you know they’re cheaper? Did you do the math?

Me:  Shut up.

Angst:  Last time that brand folded holding Coach Hubby’s spaghetti and meat balls.

Me:  Alright, but if I get the name brand, I’m gonna put the Dial soap back and get the Bored Simple brand.

Angst:  You need to put that cookie dough back while you’re at it.

Me:  No!  I never spend money on myself!

Angst: (Chardonnay coming out nose) Do you know how much wine you drink?

What’s with the explosion of store brands, anyway?  I mean, pretty soon stores will only sell their Bored Simple brand, (ahem, Kroger) and I’ll have no choices, and Communism will rule pockets of suburbia and will trickle up to Chicago and then to the whole Obamanation.  And then nobody will talk American anymore. There IS a lot at stake. 

Forget it.  I’m buying the “green” paper plates.  Faced with difficult choices, vacillating moms like me will go “green,” and eventually the whole country will eat nothing but granola and tofu and wear long denim skirts.  At least I’ll fit in with my hairy legs.

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.

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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.

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.  

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.