What 18 Hours of Driving Can Teach You

So we've managed to make it to vacation unscathed. Go us! It was a total of 18 hours in the vehicle. Last year it was over 19 so we were a little worried where the GPS (her name is Margie) was taking us. Other than the last half hour when we were sent on an unexpected tour of the back roads, it went fine.

I CAN tell you that driving that many hours in a car will teach you a few things. The first thing that I learned is that there are still quite a few crazy families like us that drive to their vacations too. (It's comforting to know we're not alone.) And after seeing them for so many hours, you get to know them by the color/make of their vehicle or their license plate. You begin to feel like you know them. You talk to them. "Get up there Nissan, don't let that jerk keep cutting people off." You notice when they're missing. "Oh, I haven't seen the black Audi in awhile." Or if you don't notice they're gone, you notice when they come back. "Oh, THERE's the silver Odyssey. We haven't seen them since Virginia."

The second thing I learned is that once you're out of your home state, everyone FROM your state is an ally. It could be your worst enemy, it could be the kid who bullied you in third grade, it could be the guy who did your IRS audit....if they are in a vehicle with a license plate that matches yours, they're like family. If someone from another state cuts them off, you instantly sympathize with your fellow natives. If they are being nice and let someone go ahead of them, we instantly give our entire state credit for that car's generosity.

But if one of your own betrays you? Sacrilege.  There was this one black car that was apparently practicing for the Daytona 500. He was dodging and weaving in and out but would end up getting bumped back and repeating the process. After watching it a few times, hubby pointed it out to me. We chuckled and waited for him to finally pass us so that we check to see what state it was representing. Gasp! Ours! You mean this guy is the one that all the people in Georgia are going to remember for our state? This is the guy who's going to give New York drivers a bum rap? Geez, buddy, thanks a lot.

Lastly, I learned that radio stations down south have a lot of Christian music, country music, and church channels (Imagine going to church in the comfort of your car!). They still have the rock, pop, and top 40 stations, but the ratio is probably about 70/30. Around 2 AM when I was bored and thinking of creative ways to keep myself awake, I'd do a radio scan and count how many of the stations fit into those 3 categories. At one point I had 5 out of the first 7 channels.

Due to all the recent learning in these last 24 hours, I'm quite literally exhausted. (It has nothing to do with managing very little sleep in an upright position in a moving vehicle.) Now if only I could get those darn kids to go to bed. Even if it is only 7:15.

Digitally Dumb

I'm pretty sure my computer is retarded. I'm sorry, that's not right anymore. I'm pretty sure my computer is mentally challenged. (See, I can be politically correct. Once a year or so.)

My computer and I usually get along pretty well but every once in awhile it will do something really dumb and tick me off. Something like pop up a random dialog box while I'm trying to do something. I can understand the pop up ads if I'm actually browsing the web, but the random ones? They're like the Gomer Pyle pop up ads. They're the doofy ones that missed their cues and then laugh like a goober when you ask them about it.

Every once in awhile my mouse stops responding. My whole page will freeze and being the completely patient person that I am, I will get frustrated and start madly clicking all over the page. (Because if I click in just the right spot, it'll fix everything.) After the 97th click my computer will give me one annoyed beep, which usually freaks me out like I'm breaking it or something and stops the clicking. I figure if it was mad enough to beep at me, maybe I should knock it off. Like when you would poke your sibling in the car and the mom with the ninja eyes caught you and yelled at you.....which would work for 40 seconds until you started the whole process over again.

There's also times when my computer will do something scary and I'm always unsure of how to react. Like tonight when I'm on Amazon looking for new books for the kindle, since I'll be on vacation and have plenty of time to actually read, and I get a mean, scary looking red box notification from my Norton program. (Internet security) And the box says something about a Trojan threat. So now I'm thinking either my computer is planning a wild night or I've got a virus threat. There's nothing scarier to me than a virus threat because instantly I think, "Crap! I never burned those pictures to a disc like I said I was going to. I'm going to lose half my kids pictures!" Whether your computer crashes or you buy a new one, starting over just sucks. You finally got your programs to do what you want, you know where all your icons are by memory, you can successfully navigate iTunes, and you've sat through hours of downloading the old programs already. Who wants to sit through that again?

To make matters worse, after the error message came up I tried to get into my email and got another scary message box. They couldn't find my email. What the hell? What do you mean you can't find it? It's right there. Right where it's always been. I tried to x out of the message and it would not go away! It was like the haunted dialog box from Trojan virus hell. I would x out the box but it would pop back up half of a nano second later in the same exact spot. Now I'm surely thinking something very, very bad has happened. So I shut down the computer (With my fingers crossed behind my back for luck!) and turned it back on. Apparently that small mini vacation was all it needed. Perhaps it was feeling overtaxed by my Amazon kindle searching.

So, Dell and I made amends, for now. I'm sure tomorrow he'll try my patience again by trying to tell me that a shock wave app has crashed. Until then, I really need to find a blank disc for those pictures.....

Mayhem Takes a Vacation

Spring Break is not just for drunken co-eds to blow off steam and see how many margaritas it takes for your face to get an invitation to meet the floor. It's also the time when the Mayhem family hits the road for vacation, Griswald style. Yes, that's right folks. People still drive to get to vacation. What's 1,200 miles in a cramped vehicle with 5 people and enough luggage for a family of 8, right?

Since we live on the East coast, of course we travel to Southern climes to get help us forget that we haven't felt our toes for the last six months. Not only do we drive the 20 plus hours to get there, we do it in one shot. Yes, we are so eager to leave our hum drum regular lives behind to get to our vacation that we will literally be an exhausted heap for the first half day we are there. I'm not exaggerating, we'll all be struggling to keep our eyes open by 8 the first night and most likely we'll be sawing logs by 9. Luckily, that will just make us refreshed and ready to tackle the rest of our vacation head on.

Because we have made this an annual trip the last few years, it's all that baby boy knows. If we ever stop making this yearly pilgrimage, we'd better prepare for the fallout. He has been counting down since last year. Now that we are within mere days of liftoff he has become so excited that I'm surprised he isn't vibrating. If he was any happier, he'd be twins. You'd think he was a 45 year old corporate executive suffering from burnout instead of a 5 year old with too many coloring worksheets.

He's not the only one looking forward to sun and fun. Spring seems reluctant to come to the party and has been trying our patience with snow, sleet, and cold temps. Everyone is looking forward to sand between their toes, not to mention sun, sun, and more sun. I'm excited that I won't have to wear 3 layers of clothing to be warm. And if luck is on my side, I'll bring some of that sun and warmth back with us. Yeah, see? Most people bring back cheesy coasters or seashell tissue covers, I'm bringing back better weather. You're welcome. (However, if it's still cold and raining after we get back, it's probably because hubby didn't bungee it to the car tight enough.)

So if my phone is disconnected and my house looks abandoned in a few weeks, you can probably assume that we didn't come back from vacation. This is the dream I'm clinging to at least. Realistically I know that we'll be back after our ten days of blissful sunshine and spring are up, shivering in our long johns and consuming multiple cups of cocoa to see us through "Springter". (Springter is when it's spring but winter hasn't gotten the memo.)

Until then: Viva la vacation baby!

A Serious Moment in Mayhemville

I have learned over the years never to judge a teacher based on hearsay. One of my daughter's favorite teachers (and mine as well) was one who was purported to be "very mean and strict" and "no one liked her". Conversely, a teacher who was younger and really nice didn't have the experience and firm structure that my daughter needed.

I am also aware that sometimes personalities clash. Everyone has different personalities and kids are not excluded from this. In many cases, children have bigger personalities than adults. When a teacher and one of my children seem to have a clash of wills they are told, "You may not like your teacher, but they still deserve your respect and cooperation." The older two understand this, but baby boy is just 5. I suspect there is currently some personality discord happening between him and his teacher.

Based on conversations I have had with her both at the parent teacher conference in November and more recently, I'm not convinced that baby boy and his teacher are handling their conflict in the right way. He has some stress which is manifesting in tears and tantrums at home and talking and disruptive behavior at school. In turn, his teacher is being more verbally reprimanding and strict with baby boy. It's at this point that I'd like to say a few words, not only to all teacher, but most especially the ones who work with the youngest students in elementary schools.

Dear teacher,

Every day I entrust one of my most precious gifts into your care. I understand you have many other precious gifts as well and I am not asking for my child to receive favoritism or special treatment. But please consider that, while your tree has had many seasons to grow tall and strong with deep roots, that he has not had as many seasons for his tender, young sapling. Harsh criticism and scolding words may bounce off your tough bark but they can strip those who are not used to weathering storms. While your trunk can stand against strong winds of disapproval, his can bend. His leaves still need the warmth of love and the cool sweet words of praise, his branches still need the tickle of raindrops. He is not a fully developed mighty oak yet, but he is growing every day, even if they are subtle changes.

Please remember that you were once this age and that the world was just as tall to you as it is to him right now. Remember what it was like to have parents, teachers, and family tell you where to go, what to do and how to do it while you were learning your first taste of freedom at school. Now that you are the tall one, realize that your actions now help shape my child's perceptions of how teachers behave and how to resolve classroom conflict. Realize that some children just have a lot of energy and don't be so quick to suggest a medicated world. Remember that every action has a reaction and that children haven't learned impulse control well yet. Be fair. Be kind. Be positive. Smile more. Think happy thoughts (even if it's only how many days there are until summer vacation). Be responsible: You have a part in shaping the future of tomorrow's doctors, lawyers, trash collectors, teachers, mechanics, and scientists. Just as each job has its own importance, so does each child.

You don't have to like my child, but you do have to respect my child and their feelings.

Signed,
A Mom of a high energy, social butterfly, Kindergarten student

The Big Appliance Store in the Sky

We laid a beloved family member to rest this week. I was very close with him and therefore the loss has devastated me. I'm speaking of course about Mr. Coffee, the best brew machine this side of the Hudson.

He had a long life, comparatively speaking. We've had a long line of Mr. Coffees over the years. I'm kind of the Godfather (well, Godmother) of coffee pots. I tend to cause accidents to happen to them. They aren't sleeping with the fishes, but they are suffering multiple injuries. I can't tell you how many have carafes have been dropped and smashed or how many hot pads have burned out. I'm pretty sure when I go to buy a new coffee maker they hide behind the fancy Keurig machines, hoping that I won't find them.

Ironically, I LOVE coffee. So it shouldn't be a monumental task to keep an appliance whose sole function is to produce that lovely, rich nectar continually functioning in my house. And yet it is. It's like my kryptonite. Because no one wants to see me without coffee, least of all my husband. If you think I'm being overly dramatic, let me explain that my husband's first action upon hearing that Mr. Coffee bit the big one, was to purchase another coffee pot. Before he even came home from work. Because he knows that if I don't have coffee, I'm gonna go all Mel Gibson up in this place. And he's going to get the brunt of it. See, it's purely self preservation.

Of course, I had the proper grieving period for the old chap (2 hours) before replacing him with the new, improved Mr. Coffee. (Hey, I'm sentimental, not stupid! Now give me my coffee!) I'd say that I took no joy in it, but let's be realistic, it's a coffee pot not my Grandmother! (Although coincidentally, she's being replaced too. Auditions are being held next week.)

I love to get a brand spanking new coffee maker. I feel like a kid at Christmas. It's all shiny and new and has endless pots of coffee still left in it. I think of all the lazy mornings we'll spend together and the good times we'll have. There'll be a montage of warm, fuzzy moments of holiday breakfasts and afternoon chats with friends or a good book with sappy music playing in the background. And at the end I'll be spinning in a circle with Mr. Coffee in my arms with the sunset at our backs. Sigh. I love you Mr. Coffee.

So, Mr. Java Beans Coffee the eighth (or maybe the ninth?), rest in peace little buddy. May your days be filled with heavenly frolicking toasters and all the cream and sugar your little carafe desires.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News

If your husband is like mine, he'd pretty much do anything to avoid going to a doctor's office. I'm not sure if it's a man thing ("Unh, big scary man in white coat bad.") or if men are just really good at denial. I truly think that he's under the impression that no news is good news and just takes it to a whole new level.

I've been trying to get my husband to get regular check ups for, oh, the entire time we've been married. I'm not sure if it's because of my persistence that's breeding his resistance but it's extremely frustrating. His opinion is that doctors always find something wrong. So if you don't go, you're healthy. This is such guy thinking. If you're sick and don't know it, you're still sick Einstein.

Because this is such a frustrating issue, I of course have been taking a poll of all the women closest to me to see if their husbands are as big of block heads concerning going to the doctor. Only to find that 95% of their husbands have the same doctor phobia. Perhaps it's something in a man's genetic code that says he has to be so macho that he will cut his own arm off rather than go to the hospital and get it fixed. Heck, maybe it's decades of fathers telling their sons to "Rub some dirt in it, you'll be fine." that has become so ingrained that it's second nature now.

Within the last year or so, hubby has developed a persistent, dry cough. He doesn't even notice that he's doing it. I'm trying to do my wifely duty (nagging) to have him get it checked out. The big problem is, left on my own, I'm going to seek answers from other sources. If he's not going to go to the doctor, I'm going to talk to people, do Google searches, and scour Web MD. It starts out benign enough: acid reflux, post nasal drip, sinus infection. Then the scary illnesses follow: lung infections, heart failure, cancer. What started out as a minor worry that he needs to get a check up now morphs into an insane fear that he's going to die from some exotic disease that he has all the symptoms of. (Too much knowledge CAN be a dangerous thing.) And he knows me, so he knows that I can swing from normal to paranoid in 3.6 seconds. I really think he should have seen this coming.

What men don't realize is that they can save themselves a lot of grief and wifely lectures if they just go to the damn doctor already. It's not like we're asking you to donate your eyeballs to charity. We're not asking you to cut off your scrotum. We just want you to go visit the nice man in the white coat. (No, not that white coat, the other white coat. The ones that require less Prozac ) How can you not want to know? Maybe this is why they get married. They don't want to know and women do. Perfect match! Until they still don't want to know and you still do.....and then it's just back to nagging and lectures.

It's All Fun & Games Until You Eat Internal Organs

As bad as your life can ever be, you can always take solace in the fact that at least you're not a zombie. As you can probably guess, I'm a fan of The Walking Dead. I was a late comer to the zombie apocalypse since I didn't jump on the bandwagon until season 2. (And only then because 3 people had told me I should watch this show. Apparently there's something about me that screams "Zombie Lover".)

It surprised me that I liked this show since it's got two of the criteria on my "Shows To Stay Away From" list. The first being, of course, the gore and blood of the show. I'm probably one of the only people who watch large portions of this show with one eye closed, peeking out behind my hands. Do you know why? Because you wouldn't believe how many different ways there are to kill zombies. Each one more creative than the last. It's as if they are constantly trying to up their own ante. It was bad enough when they started out shooting them, but now they've got shovels, baseball bats, cross bows, hammers, chair legs, you name it. If you can think it, you can stab it into a zombie head. It doesn't help that the special effects artists on this show are geniuses. They get right in there creating creepy, realistic looking guts and brains and blood. So yes, I spend most of the show trying to watch it, but squealing like a girl and turning my head.

The second thing on my list of shows to avoid is anything scary. I'm like a 90 year old lady with a heart condition when I watch scary stuff. My heart's racing, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I'm feeling like I'm the one who's running into the zombie infested woods. I'm only one scene away from a good old fashioned Victorian fainting session. Now that I think about it, between the fainting and hiding behind my hands, I probably don't watch a lot of the show. I usually rely on conversation to keep me in the know. That plan usually backfires since killing zombies isn't a chatty past time. Apparently you don't have tea and crumpets while stabbing the undead in their frontal lobes.

One really great thing about this show is that they have a show on right after it called The Talking Dead. This is a show dedicated to people, often other famous people, discussing the episode that was just on. What other show has its own promotional show that airs right after it? The Walking Dead, that's who! If you can't talk about the latest show with someone because it's 10 p.m. on a Sunday night, you can watch a show about people who can until you are able to call your Grandma the next day and rehash the episode.

You are not a true fan of the show, however, until you have a zombie plan. Seriously. If you watch this show, there's some sort of subliminal messages being piped into your brain or something, because you start to think of where your zombie free zone would be, what weapons you would need, how you would survive the zombie invasion. They've even started to give tips on what to stock in your zombie survival pack. (Pantyhose! Oh, and food would be good. Maybe some of that water you stocked up on when the world was ending in 2012.) I think if they were smarter, they'd already have some marketing wizard on this and sell their own "Zombie Apocalypse Starter Kits". Think of the revenue possibilities! Instead they're making action figures of the cast members. Yeah, THAT's going to get us far when the zombies take over.

So the next time you're bitching about having to go to that really boring meeting at work, tell yourself that it could be much, much worse. You could be a zombie. Or be chased by one, very hungry zombie horde. Did somebody say entrails? Yum!

Tales From The Zumba Files

So I've done two Zumba classes now. I did not fall into a red, sweaty mess on the floor. (Phew!) I even successfully completed the entire hour class without incident. Oh, but that's not the end of this story, right? Of course not. If I ever have only 5 sentences worth of an opinion on anything, I've probably got broken fingers and laryngitis.

I was a little nervous the first class, but having my fellow newbies helped to ease some of my trepidation. The class was full which helped me hide out in the back where no one could see that I have coordination issues and problems differentiating my right from my left when the instructor is facing me. (I know, it sounds stupid, but she's facing me, so I mirror the wrong side. Did I mention the coordination issues?)

I was okay with these problems though, because I could hide under the excuse of "It's my first Zumba class." (Until my second class. But I was willing to "forget" about the first class and tell everyone it's my first class again if I was really horrible.) There were only two things that bothered me. The first was the music. We are not in a very large space. So the music could have been a few decibels lower. When you leave an hour exercise class and your ears are ringing like you've just been to a rock concert, you know the music is too loud. Believe me, I feel foolish even saying that out loud, because it makes me officially old. I'm now "Turn that down, it's too loud" Mom. And I really feel I'm too young to be that old yet. Then again, I don't want to be that mom in 40 years whose kids keep telling her to "Turn your hearing aid up Ma!"

The second was Zumba guy. He's probably 106 (or 70) and has the tiniest toothpick legs I've ever seen on a man, let alone an ancient one. I don't even know how these things support him. It must be like walking on stilts all day. While it's great for his balance, I'm worried that his teeny tiny ankles won't support him one day and down he'll go. Of course, I'm anti-gory anything, so once I see the blood (just writing blood made me a little queasy) from his popped ankles, I'll probably pass out or throw up. If you've ever seen the movies, you know one person throwing up will start the chain of vomit from everyone until the entire room will be ankle deep. One or two of my co-workers would be standing in the melee, laughing like loons. It would be bedlam.

As if the stilts weren't enough, he likes to yell things out in class. Sometimes it's just a single "Woooooo!" and sometimes he's yelling things along with the song. "Put your hands up! Put your hands up!" (Actually, I might have just solved the mystery of why the music is so loud.) At any rate, when a person with coordination issues is doing their best to keep up with the instructor, Zumba guy can really screw with your concentration. By the end of the second class I was thinking that someone should tell him they weren't open on Mondays starting next week. Unfortunately, I couldn't find anyone willing to do that.

Long story short....well, actually it's too late for that I guess. Long story long, I'll be going back even if the music is too loud (hearing in your 70's is overrated) and Zumba guy is yelling while doing the balancing act on his matchsticks.

How Schools Scare Parents

I don't know if you're like me, but there's something about seeing your child's school on the caller ID or a letter that instantly transports me back to high school. It's like I'm the one who's been called into the teacher's room or the principal's office and that nervous little feeling in the pit of your stomach that was your frequent companion for those four years returns. This happened last weekend. On a Saturday of all days.

Since our mail gets delivered between mid afternoon and whenever the mailman decides he wants to drop it off, it was after 4 by the time I checked the mail. And sitting right there on top was a letter from my oldest son's high school. My first thought was, "Crap! He's the good one!" Unfortunately, my psychic powers have been on the fritz since, oh, forever and staring holes into the envelope wasn't working either. So I decided to just rip that band aid off and open it. Only to be pleasantly surprised.

My son has apparently been eating lunch in the library with a girl who has to be segregated from possible cafeteria contaminants that could affect her very serious food allergies. She otherwise eats by herself. A teacher noticed this and it was brought to the attention of the assistant principal who in turn sent this very nice letter. Of course, I didn't cry (more than a few minutes) upon reading this very lovely letter.

What a great ego boost for parents though, don't you think? This kid is the first born, the practice kid if you will. This is the one who got ALL my insane paranoia and fears of causing emotional damage and a completely baby proofed life. And he still managed to turn out normal. Well who knew I had it in me? I feel like I should give a speech or something. "I'd like to thank the academy for well, nothing. A big shout out to God (Because he's in all the important acceptance speeches.) and my parents (They are too). Big thanks to all the news stories that made me afraid to let my kid sleep on his side, made me question red dyes of every kind, and made me cut all his food into micro sized bites until he was 12. Without you I wouldn't have been the paranoid Mom who somehow did something right and got this amazingly thoughtful, funny, caring kid."

Now we've had calls over the years that have led to parental disappointment, followed by theatrical childish tears (mine and theirs), and perhaps a punishment of some sort. It seems like all you ever get is the bad news. No one ever calls me to tell me that my kids are excellent students or that they got to school on time for an entire year or to thank for me for encouraging good study habits. Instead I get calls telling me about my children's tendency to talk too much or that they were being bullied but it's being handled (and my kid never uttered a single word) or that they need money for their lunch accounts. Where's the recognition people? Don't I deserve an award for raising them to their current age without killing, maiming, or disfiguring them? (Especially considering how slippery those suckers are as babies!) Maybe if schools were as quick to pat on the back as they are to point fingers, we parents could feel like we might be doing something right.

Of course, since I have multiple children, every time I feel like I'm doing something right, another one will make me feel like an epic failure. So enjoy those small accomplishments parents, because you're just one school bus fight away from a parent teacher conference.

The Scary Hairy Situation

Yeah, so I kind of have a terminal case of hair envy. I know, I know, thou shalt not covet yada yada. I just can't seem to help it though. I see a hairstyle that looks perfectly groomed and stylish and it makes me wish I could have hair that did what it was told. Instead I got stuck with this mop I'm carting around. (In public even!) Yikes.

I think I've only ever had like 12 hair days in my entire life where I didn't want to shave my head and just buy some cranium wax. (Really, how perfect would that be? Just give a polish in the morning and I'd be good to go. And think of how much money I'd save on shampoo and hairspray!) The problem is, I get sucked into these articles that tout "8 Trendy Styles of the Stars" or "10 'Dos That Would Work on You" or "5 Cuts That Your Hairdresser Can Make Amazing But That You Will Sadly Never Be Able to Replicate". Last month I got sucked into one such article. I clicked through most of them until I got to this one:

Cute AND flirty hairstyle? Count me in.

I'm thinking, "Oh, what a totally cute style. I wonder if I could pull it off?" This translates into, "I'm going to take a picture of this with my iPhone and ask every person I come into contact with for the next 3 weeks if they think this style would work for me." Which is exactly what I did. And Every. Single. Person. Lied. Kidding. (I think.) Every one said, "Yeah, you could pull that off. It would look cute. You should do it."

 So I did. I found out that my husband didn't know I had a neck. At least I'm guessing that's why he's said, "I can see your neck" three times so far. I also found out that my hair is a 3 year old toddler two hours past nap time. I tried to coax it to curl cutely to frame my face. My hair said, "I don't wanna." I asked again nicely. It said, "You can't make me." (Sadly, it wasn't lying.) I tried to bribe it with exotic shampoos and it said, "I don't like them." So I got exasperated and left it alone. Only to come back an hour later and see that it's flipped the opposite way and is slightly reminiscent of Annette Funicello going to a 50's beach party. Sigh. I try to console myself with the dozen "It's cute" and "I like it!" comments that I got today. Which just made my hair's ego even frizzier.

So, I'm back to my hair envy. Or maybe it's just people that can do something with their hair that I envy. Either way, it's a (wait for it) HAIRY situation. (Hey, I couldn't resist.)

The Time Is A Changin' (Literally)

I really hate this whole time change crap. I never remember to do it until Sunday morning. When it's fall, and we change the clocks back an hour, it doesn't bother me. I'm thinking that I just gained an extra hour in my weekend. It's like winning the leisure time lottery. I instantly think of everything I can do with that extra precious hour. (And end up doing none of it.)

But when it's the hour ahead time change, I get cranky. I'm sitting here, contemplating blog like thoughts, and I glance at the clock on my computer. Only to realize that it's an hour later than I thought it was 5 minutes ago. What the hell? I've been up a total of 15 minutes and I've already lost an hour of my weekend. I don't have time for this! I still have mountains of laundry calling my name, the bedding has to be washed, the floors have to be swept and mopped......and that hour they took away was the one I was going to do most of that in. Well, that's just great! Now I have to find a different hour to complete my house cleaning in.

Why do we have to mess with the time? Oh yes, that's right. Daylight savings. The country that can't save a single red cent to get them out of the tremendous debt they're in can apparently collect sunlight, an intangible substance. And this is because we want it to be an hour lighter in the winter? Winter sucks if there's sun or not. Most winter days the sun doesn't even make an appearance anyway. I would give up daylight savings if it meant I never had to lose a single hour ever again. I don't care if its dark at 2:30 P.M. in January. As long as you stop stealing time from my weekends.

Recently, when the topic of changing the clocks came up, I was muttering about how stupid it is to lose time. Hubby says  "Oh, you're one of THOSE." Um, hello?! I'm one of those what? "What time are you losing?" he asks me. "I'm losing an hour of sleep." I reply. "No you're not, you're still going to sleep the same amount of time." "Well, it's an hour later when I get up! So I'm losing an hour somewhere! Maybe I'm losing the hour  of quality husband time. How would you like that, huh?" (Okay, so I didn't say that last part.) Listen babe, you're supposed to be on MY side on this. Even if it's stupid. Don't you remember that part in our vows? The minister asked you "Do you take this woman to love, cherish, and always agree with even if she's wrong and doesn't believe she is, therefore causing you to argue if you disagree and you love her so much that you would never want to argue and so you'll tell her that she's right unless it would cause undue embarrassment in public which you would save her from because you love her?" And he said I DO. Therefore, we are losing an hour of the weekend.

So, I'll most likely be in my own little cranky bubble today, folding copious amounts of laundry and muttering about how dumb it is to mess with the clocks and why can't it just be whatever o'clock it should be. Just ignore me. I'll be okay in six months when we change the time and I am reunited with my beautiful lost hour.

Winter Cramming

So, it seems that Mother Nature did not study for her finals. Indeed, she has been cramming all her snowiest work into the last few weeks, probably hoping to get extra credit from Father Time. (I hear he's a wicked strict professor.) What she hasn't learned is that you do sloppy work when you're rushed. Tsk, tsk, Momma N! Haven't you learned anything this semester? You're giving us snow that's turning to sleet and freezing rain because it's not quite cold enough. Not some of your best work. Probably a B-.

Every weekend for the last month, we've had dire weather predictions. What I want to know is why she's picking on weekends? What did we do to piss her off so much that she wants to crap all over the only good thing in our overworked and underpaid lives? Are we not allowed to just enjoy the weekends already? Apparently we are not. Instead we have to haul out the shovels and salt and boots again when all we really want to do is celebrate spring, which is never going to come because it's buried under snow, sleet, and ice.

You know that when they're predicting snow there's a mad dash for water, toilet paper, bread, and milk. And if you doubt the veracity of this statement, head on over to YouTube and watch the bread and milk video. That pretty much sums up every single person in the state of New York when ever there's even a few inches of snow coming. I'm not sure what the correlation between a snow forecast and the need for preparing for the apocalypse is, but it's there. And we have the 32 rolls of toilet paper and 4 cases of water to prove it.

So half the population (the kids) are doing insane rituals for snow days (Have you heard about the spoon under the pillow and the fork in the freezer? Or is it the other way around?) and the adults praying that the damn snow would just go the hell away already. We need sun. And warmth. And temperatures higher than 35. And did I mention sun? We'd like an entire week to go by with 0% chance of snow. Don't think you can substitute rain either. Let's amend that to an entire week without precipitation. Just sun. And 40 degrees. And cartoon birds and smiling rainbows. (If you're really seeing cartoon birds and smiling rainbows, please see your doctor for an adjustment in your medication dosage.)

What Mother Nature fails to understand is that she's slowly making us insane. We can see the light at the end of the snowy, white, frigid tunnel, but we're not quite there yet. But we're pretty sure if we have to deal with any more snow we're going to lose it. Lose. It. I'm talking babbling like lunatics in pretty, white jackets that "give you a hug". We're crying Uncle.  We need a Mai Tai and a Prozac. We are 5 minutes away from "Come closer to the glass Clarice" crazy.

So Mother Nature, if I let you borrow my notes and promise to help you study, will you lay off us already? I'm trying to get my Spring on here and your Winter is cramping my style.

There's An App For That

I know that there were cell phones before I got my iPhone. I vaguely remember life before my apptastic adventure began. However, if you tried to take it away from me now, I'd probably be forced to kill you. Not only has this thing helped keep me organized, but it's also quite literally saved my life a few times. If that sounds overly dramatic, you've never been unexpectedly stalled somewhere for longer than you anticipated with a bored 4 year old child who has the attention span of a gnat.

The Apple people, whom I suspect must be clairvoyant somehow, have foreseen this future. Their solution: Apps that will entertain your children so that you don't have to be the asshole parent with the screaming child in the throes of the worst meltdown known to childkind. Now if you could just figure out why it's always so sticky when they're done. No, probably best not to dwell on that. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.

BUT.....they didn't stop there. They knew some adults have the attention spans of gnats as well and need constant entertainment in their lives. So they have apps for big kids too. Words with friends, draw something, fruit ninja, angry birds......you never have to impatiently sit in a waiting room ever again. Get in touch with your inner child and kill time waiting for the proctologist all at once! Wow! My iPhone is a proud supporter of multi-tasking!

And they still keep rolling them out. There's something for everyone! Are you mathmatically challenged such as myself? There's a tip calculator app. Just plug in the amount of the bill, the percent tip being left, and how many people are paying and voila! No thinking required. (Unless you're the hubby. He calculates the tip before I can finish getting my phone out.) Who wants to watch a movie on their phone? (No seriously, who does this? Can you say serious eye strain?) Netflix app! Want to figure out who this song is by on the radio? Song ID app! Want to make friends? Um, well, I don't know if there's an app for that but if I had to guess, I'd say So You Finally Want to Move Out of Your Parent's Basement App!

I'm pretty sure by the time Apple rolls out the iPhone 6, it'll wash your dishes, schedule the oil changes for your car, and braid your daughter's hair. Which would be great because I still have to fold the laundry and wash the floors. Unless I can find an app for that.

No News is Good News

I can't watch the news anymore. I know that's probably not very sophisticated of me. I should want to know what's going on in my community and the world at large, right? You'd be wrong. Every time I DO happen to watch the news, one of two things happens. 1.) I get really sad or upset. 2.) I get really pissed off.

Why do I get sad and upset? Hmm, probably because the lead story is always the worst, most terrible thing that happened that day. They don't start you off with rainbows and kittens and cute babies, they jump right into killer whales massacred by terrorists with machine guns who take candy from babies and then sell those babies on the black market. It's a slow news day if the lead story is a robbery. You know they're probably thinking, "Oh crap, we don't have anything juicier than the robbery on Main Street. What? The cashier wasn't even hurt?! Not even a little bit? This sucks."

I also get sad when anything bad happens to little kids. Child abuse, neglect, they lost their kitten.....it's all the same. I'm probably crying and snotting (because I can't be one of those women who cry prettily, can I? Noooo.) and cursing mankind for the cruelty they've bestowed on this poor hapless child who's now either going to turn out to be a mass murderer or require 37 years of therapy to be an emotionally well adjusted human being. Inevitably, my husband will take that moment to come in and see me crying and snotting, shake his head, and walk back out. Because he knows my brand of crazy.

Now I'll tell you why I end up pissed off when I watch the news. (I know you were hoping I would. You're welcome.) The biggest reason is that if I am watching the news, it's probably only because I want to know what the weather is going to be. Which probably means I've heard a storm was a comin' or they've run teasers every 10 minutes. (Teasers are when the weatherman says something ominous like, "A warm start to the day but will it take a turn for the worse tomorrow? Find out more on News Channel 10 at 11.") So I'm staying up until 11 to find out the weather, which is a ridiculous time to have news on in the first place, and you can't even give me a forecast until quarter after? What the hell people? Just give it to me in the first 3 minutes of the newscast. I'm tired and I want to go to bed but I need to know if I should press the snooze button less tomorrow morning because I have to un-bury my car. Is that so much to ask?

I also get angry at pet abuse stories, child abuse stories, and cats stuck in trees. (Who was the irresponsible owner who let the poor cat get all the way up that tree?) Of course, I'm probably crying over these stories first. After I've blown my nose 3 times and stopped blubbering, I'll get ticked off at humanity and "How can people do things like that?" and immediately want to track the culprit down and smack them into next Sunday. But it's quarter after 11 and I'm tired, so I'll probably pass and just go to bed.

So, I'm probably skipping the news tonight. I haven't heard there's a storm coming. Like they say, "No news is good news and if it's bad news, I'm not watching so it doesn't count."

Blame The Name Game Shame

When did it become uncool to name your kids something normal? And not only make the name normal, but spell it the way that it was intended to be spelled. Remember laughing at the Beatrices, Herberts, Enids, and Ernests of our grandparent's generation? Now our kids get to do the same with John, Michael, Jane, and Anne.

I get that, as parents, you want your kid to be individual and a name is an important part of a person. But you DO realize, that even if you name him Michael but spell it Mykel, that his name is never going to spelled right and probably mispronounced his entire life. Do you really want to ensure a decade and a half of name frustration and your kid having the yearbook misspell his name? And please tell me, what is so wrong with just spelling it Michael in the first place. For ages and ages this was acceptable and then you came along and said, "Nope. Too plain. Let's change it." Now they're adding all sort of letters that just don't need to be there (Kyleigh instead of Kylie) and God forbid we use an i now when y is a perfectly good substitute. Which is how we end up with Maddyson and Symon and Jasmyn. (Conversely, names that should have y now get anything but. Aimee instead of Amy. Kathi instead of Kathy.) Wasn't it bad enough we had names like Sarah and some people would leave the H off? Or if the person's name is Steven versus Stephen. We had to add more name issues? Really?

The parents who creatively spell aren't half as bad as the ones who seemingly pick names randomly. Perhaps we should stop letting women pick names when she's pregnant. Maybe it's the pregnancy hormones that are wreaking havoc with the naming process. Like naming your kid Nike because the ad you saw one night was really cool and wouldn't that be a different name? But you could pronounce it like Mike and not like the shoe company. Or the people who are "in tune" with their spiritual side and name their kids Raine or Myst or, my personal favorite: Neveah, which of course is heaven spelled backwards.

Now people name their kids after states, or cities, or their favorite band. It's all fodder for naming potential. Listen people, do what every other person normally does: Give your kid their own secret shame name. This is their middle name. Name them something normal for their first name and then go crazy with the middle name. Because how many people really get to know your middle name? Parents, best friend, spouse, kids, undertaker. That's what, a half dozen to a dozen tops? So give him a normal first name like Jonathan. Then let your creativity flow and make his middle name Sayler, for his Dad's love of water recreation. Your daughter can go to school confidently as Carrie and at home she can be called Carrie Amethyst Jones. You can still tell everyone Carrie is short for what you really wanted to name her: Carnelian, a gemstone that reminded you of the sunset on the beach where you met your husband., until you smartened up and realized that's a mouthful and Carrie is a much lighter albatross to hang around her neck.

And for God's sake people, DO NOT try to give them some cutesy, funny, or original full name. If your last name is Johnson, don't name your son Harry. If your last name is Bowe, don't name your daughter Rain. You'd think this would be a given, bad sadly, there are probably some people out there who have named their kids Paradise Cruise or Richard Dick or Cash Rich.

So for all the moms-to-be out there: Put down the baby name book. At least until after the baby is born. You could save your child up to 20% of therapy required later.