Channeling Your Inner Insensitivity

Unless you've been living under a boulder, you've probably heard that Prince is dead. (Pssst, quick side bar, wasn't he "The Artist Formerly Known As Prince"? And was that the same as when he changed his name to that weird symbol which didn't have a name and that's why he was the artist formerly blah blah blah? I'm confused. When did he become "The Artist Known As Prince Again Because He's Not The Artist Formerly Known As Prince Anymore Possibly Because He Got A Clue And Realized How Stupid It Was Or More Likely That It Was Really Hard To Sign That Symbol On All The Important Paper Stuff"?) Anyway, yeah, so he's no longer among the living anymore.

Cue the sad symphony music. 

And 17 billion artist tributes of Purple Rain.

Okay, so I guess I'm just a cold, heartless farce of a human being because I am completely over hearing about this. Seriously. Enough already. I don't need to know the minutiae of this whole procedure. (I barely need to hear the basics.) I don't need hourly updates.

"Cause of death STILL unknown, but an autopsy will determine the cause."

"The remains have been transported to the morgue, where an autopsy is slated to be performed, so that we can ascertain the cause of death."

"The two pathologists who are vying for the case are now doing rock, paper, scissors to determine who will perform the autopsy that will determine the cause of death."

"They are now performing rock, paper, scissors again since the best two out of three was a draw. This final hand gesture could make one pathologist's career if he is the one who will perform the autopsy on Prince, which will determine the cause of death."

And on and on and on.

We get it. He's dead. We don't know why. But it's sad. So sad that every artist who is on the top 40 charts right now, or ever has been, is doing a cover of (insert a Prince song, probably Purple Rain or Little Red Corvette) as a special tribute to the musician who nobody remembered until he died. Oops, sorry, that was probably a little harsh if not truthful. But since I'm already being honest, let's take it a step further, shall we?

The man was a weirdo. And hey, that's ok. I'm all for your freak flag flying high as long as it doesn't involve hurting people or animals. But now we're just supposed to idolize the man because he made some hits in the 90's that will forever live on and serve as his legacy? Meanwhile, other news is happening in the world, but because it doesn't trump the juicy tidbit of a dead musician, no one hears about it.

If you think I'm overreacting, consider this: When the news broke that he had died, me and the family were driving to vacation. We were in a car, not near a television, just listening to some tunes when our phones started pinging notifications about Prince's death. And they weren't even Prince Fan Apps either. (If they made them, I wouldn't know but there's an app for everything these days, right?) By the time we got to our destination, I was already sick of hearing about it, and that was due solely to satellite radio hosts and social media.

On top of that, now I see this meme 10,000 times on my FaceBook wall:

It's uber creepy that he wrote a lyric so fitting for his own death.

And then there's this one:

Okay, I'll admit, it's a pretty drink....If you like the taste of sadness.

Rest in peace Prince. Or, uh, symbol that represents your name after you decided to change it. May your days now be filled with purple rain, raspberry berets, and lots of partying like it's 1999. Just as long as I don't have to hear about it.

Displaced From Dat Place

Recently we found out that we had to have some work done on our house due to a leak. Since it was an extensive fix, we had to find some place to stay for the duration of the renovation. Basically, we had to uproot everyone and everything and turn our schedule on its ear and all breathe into brown paper bags so that we don't hyperventilate. (Ok, the last one might only have been me.)

Cue sad, theatrical violin music.

Ok, I'm not THAT bad. I mean, sure, one of my neighbors said she felt terrible for me, knowing how hard this must be on me since I like my routine, but other than that, my coping skills are just fine. (I said they're FINE dammit!) And although my ability to "roll with the punches" has been sorely tested during this ordeal, it has allowed me to learn a few things.

1.) I HATE moving. Or more specifically, disorganized, hasty moving. If I had the proper amount of time to coordinate, plan, pack, make lists of lists, then I'm sure things would have gone completely smoothly and birds would have helped me hang the curtains while the bunnies swept the floors. Alas, there were no birds OR bunnies, just a lot of frantic adults (ok, two frantic adults) trying to move as much stuff before kids got home and ratcheted the chaos level up to clinically insane. I got to put things in boxes just to move them to the rental house five minutes away and take the crap back out of the boxes. Boxes that weren't even labeled. Yes, that's right. Unmarked boxes. Dun dun dun. Yes, all of you with obsessive compulsive tendencies can now shudder and feel my pain.

See? THIS is OCD packing at its finest.

2.) We have a lot of shi.....stuff. Yes, stuff galore. My husband told me to bring only necessities and to pack the other stuff away in the garage. Guess who got to make 45 trips back to the house to get "necessities"? I'm pretty sure that we've been there so many times that the neighbors probably don't even realize we're gone yet. Also, let me point out that it's really nice living where all of your shi....stuff is. You don't need that cake pan until you realize you need it for the Easter dessert you want to make. No, don't bring the filing cabinet, that's stupid. Instead why don't you run back and forth looking for paperwork that you wouldn't have needed if you could put your fingers on it easily. Don't take that for granted people. Seriously. I want you to go to your computer desk, find that doo hickey that holds your pens and paperclips all in one nifty place and say, "I appreciate having you close by."

3. You can't go back. After owning my own house for 10 years, I cannot be a renter. It's too stressful. I walk around just barking at kids to stop. It doesn't even matter what. Ninety nine percent of the time at least one of my children is doing something that they shouldn't be, so just stop. This instant. No you may not race cars on the walls, they aren't our walls. No you may not throw bouncy balls at the walls, they aren't our walls. No you may not do anything but stand there, they're not our legs. Oh, sorry, got carried away there. They are your legs but you cannot kick the doors with them!!! And while we're at it, here are a few other rules: Don't touch! Don't even look. Don't even want to look.

4. You can totally screw up your sleep pattern just by putting your bed in  different spot. If you sleep on your right side and face toward the center of the bed, flipping that is going to confuse your body for awhile. Once your body gets suckered into thinking sleeping on the opposite side is fantastic, you can then pull a fast one and move back to your own home and sleep on the opposite side again. A word of warning: You might need to transition slowly as moving too fast could case your brain to need extensive sessions with a therapist, which will be totally awkward because how would you not eavesdrop on that conversation?

I understand why Calgon needs to take so many people away now. It all makes sense. Except for Roth IRA's. And quesalupas. They still don't make any sense at all.

Vodka: The Calgon of 2016

Dining Out With My Little %$@! (I Mean Sweet Angels)

When you have your first kid, things don't change a lot in the beginning. Sure, there's a miniature pooping machine who's going to dictate your actions for the rest of your life (or at least until they go to college), but other than that, their first year lulls you into a false sense of complacency.

You still get to eat out. You still wear makeup and jeans and shirts that don't double as pajamas. You still think you're going to be able to shower every day, uninterrupted. Ah, that first golden year. That sweet baby who will sit still in your lap or a high chair at a restaurant. The one you get compliments on how well they behave. You may even think, "Gosh, this parenting thing is easy."

And then they turn two. I don't know what happens, but eating at a restaurant usually ends with someone crying. (If it's not the two year old, it's probably his parents.) If there aren't any tears, I guarantee that there's either a temper tantrum, thrown food, or pissed off parents. Sometimes all of the above. And all the while the toddler is channeling his inner Linda Blair until he gets back to the safety of home, where everything has been baby proofed and he can be a little jerk safely while his parents cry in a corner and pray for kindergarten to begin. (Also, I'd like to take this moment to put my rusty math skills into play and mention that if you multiply the dinner by the number of kids and divide it by two frazzled parents, shit's going to get real.)

This is the stage we are currently, ah, enjoying. By enjoying, I mean I would rather have all my fingernails pulled out than eat out in public with my children. Yes, CHILDREN, plural. Because as much as they would like to use the baby as a convenient scapegoat for all their troubles, they can be little a-holes themselves. The 8 year old likes to argue about everything. Since he's accumulated tons of experience in his long life, he knows everything though, so it's alright. The teenager wants to do teenager-y things like eye rolling, deep sighing, and getting the 8 year old in (more) trouble by tattling on some minor infraction. Meanwhile, Dad and I are the equivalent of a magician and a three ring circus, trying to entertain the toddler until the waitress comes with food that we can shove in his face hole. This involves the crayons and coloring menus, iPhone video capability, and wrestling him back into the high chair that he's trying to climb out of every forty three seconds.

And this folks, is the story of my life.

Basically, my husband and I walk out frustrated, pissed off, and freaking exhausted. Apparently we aren't that bright though, because we try it again, thinking that this time we'll surely get different results.

Lately, the two year old demon channeling angel of mine (face of an angel, temper of the devil) has made things much more interesting by refusing to eat more than 4 different foods. And none of them are going to be what we order. He has decided that he doesn't like the old standby of chicken fingers.  He turns his nose up at apples, grapes, and mashed potatoes. His palate has grown far too advanced for such childhood favorites as french fries. Basically, we aren't even getting the reprieve the waitress would normally bring because now we're trying to juggle entertainment duties and eating. (By eating, I mean shoveling food in at a rate that will probably ensure Tums are in my future.) Not to mention that we get to have witnesses to what is obviously bad parenting since he won't ingest anything other than chocolate milk and lemon water while throwing crayons and other projectiles and pitching a fit to get down and run rampant through the restaurant.

He's lucky he's cute. And cuddly. And he smells good after a bath. (These are all things I have to remember when I'm trying not to hang him from his toes at the restaurant.)

One day, I'll look fondly back at these days, when my husband and I are dining quietly, enjoying the ability to eat our meal while it's still hot. We'll reminisce how cute they were in their little jeans, their ketchup covered faces smiling with glee. We'll think about the times we stayed home to avoid tantrums and judgy stares. And we'll think, "It's probably not as bad as we made it out to be." Until the three year old at table 12 starts screaming because her Mom gave her ketchup that she didn't want and the six year old knocks over his milk into his father's lap. Then we'll probably smile, clink our glasses together, and be glad we made it through (mostly) intact.

Why are you calling me Mom, strange little boy?

Common Sense Ain't So Common

Have you ever met someone who lacks even one eensy bit of common sense and wondered how they've managed to survive? If the answer to this question is no, you're probably lying, I mean, lucky. There seems to be an epidemic of senseless humans walking the planet and it got me thinking....are we supposed to teach our kids common sense?

Before you answer that question, I give you exhibit A:

Now that Tommy* (Names have been changed to ensure that ceaseless teasing does not force said kid to become a recluse that lives under a bridge like a hobbit. Wait, do hobbits live under bridges? I think that might be a troll. Or a hobo. But I digress) is a mature, college kid getting a taste of the real world by going to school AND working, we don't see him as often. Last weekend we got to visit for a bit and the following conversation took place:

Me: Careful, don't trip over your shoes. You left them by the door. (See how I thread a concerned comment with a veiled admonishment for leaving the shoes where they don't belong? Epic Mom move.)

Tommy: They're two left feet.

Me: (Uncertain Mom laugh because I think he's making a bad pun.)

Tommy: No, really. They're two left feet.

Me: What?

Tommy: Well, I lost my first pair of work shoes. (?!?!) So I bought another pair and apparently I didn't check the box too carefully because there are two left feet. But one is a larger size so it's ok, it's not too bad on the wrong (right) foot.

Me: Why didn't you just take then back?

Tommy: Well, Mom, I was just too lazy and I waited until the eleventh hour, you know, half an hour before I had to be to work, so I really didn't have time to return them.

Okay, okay, that last sentence really only happened in my mind. I know it's probably the right answer, but what 18 year old kid likes to admit to their parents that they're an idiot?

This is immediately followed by this mental conversation:

How do you lose your work shoes? They're either on your feet at work, or they're where you took them off. It's not like you're partying at the beach with your non-skid soles on for cripes sake! Seriously. And is this kid so lazy that he can't even take his shoes back? How long has he been walking around, in public, looking like this? How many people saw him walking around with two left feet, literally, and thought that his parents must not have raised that one right? Doesn't he know that he's a reflection of me when he's in the outside world? What if he saw someone that knows he's my son? Hopefully they don't go to Pizza World.

Luckily, I've gained the ability to keep my inner monologue, well, inner, so none of that was verbalized. Instead we just went to the store and I bought him a new pair (with both a left and right shoe!) and we all had a good laugh about Tommy's two left feet.

And then of course I told my family and co-workers, the mailman, the grocery store cashier, and anyone who would stand still for five minutes "The Story of the Boy With Two Left Feet". He's become a cautionary tale to prevent reckless shoe buying.

And if that's not enough evidence, I give you Exhibit B:

A few days later, I asked the eight year old if he would please take a baby wipe (the heaven sent cleaner of the busy mom) and wipe down my shoes that had gotten a little dirty. A few minutes later I put them on and noticed they were still kind of soiled. I mentioned that he must have done it really fast because the outsides were still dirty. He looked at me and said, (I kid you not):

"Oh, you wanted me to wipe the outside?"

"What did you think I wanted you to wipe?"

"The inside."

O-kay then. So I have one son who will wear two left shoes and another one who would clean the inside of the shoe that non one can even see. Fan-tastic.

It was at this point that I wondered how you teach someone common sense. Can you teach it? And if so, do they have cliff notes versions? Because I just need a quick crash course. After all, I'm starting a little late with a few of them and I really do need to catch up.

OMG! Someone made my blog title into a sign! How'd they know before I did?

Modern Mom Morning Mayhem Madness

Some people dream of vacations, some people dream about untold riches. Lately my dream consists of getting out of the house in the morning with minimal damage done to my kid's psyche. (Or mine!)

If you're a working mom, you are all too familiar with the guilt associated with it. Or maybe you're not. Personally, I am convinced I must be 100% Italian because I can guilt myself into a lather over just about anything and everything. (And if you don't know what I mean, you don't know an Italian mom.)

Now, you may be thinking that I'm feeling bad because I can't stay at home with my precious angels all day, stalking Pinterest and making macrame whatevers, but you'd be wrong! Mostly I feel terrible because I secretly enjoy being able to escape my mom-ness and be an actual adult. I can type on a computer without sticky toddler fingers sneaking onto the keyboard to punch the space bar fourteen times while I'm ineffectually yelling, "Stop that!" I can have conversations without using baby talk or such phrases like, " Do you have to go potty?" or "Did you just fart on my leg?" My sanity pretty much rests on my ability to leave my children for eight hour stretches.

Cue the guilt.

Because Moms are supposed to want to maximize the time spent with the fruit of their looms, er, loins, right? And if not, we can't EVER tell anyone that we enjoy working outside the home. If we do, we open ourselves up to all the judgy comments and mom bashing. And really, who has the time (or mental fortitude) to deal with that? But we do exist. And we are smart enough to know that the time away from our kids makes us appreciate them even more.

But this after school special isn't really what today's blog is about. In fact, I apologize for making you start to think I might have gone soft on you and lost that sarcastic, satirical snark I carry around with me. What this is really about is my madhouse of a morning schedule.

I might as well get this shirt since running late is my new exercise plan.

It starts off innocuously enough. Alarm, shower, dress. But then it starts to go downhill when I have to wake the kids up. When you have a routine designed to wake your two year old up with the sole purpose of avoiding his Jekyll personality, (or is the evil one Hyde?) you should know that there's a 50/50 chance things are going to go epically wrong.  It goes a little like this:

Tiptoe outside bedroom door. Slowly (as in horror movie I-don't-know-what-I-will-find slowly) open door, trying to be as quiet as possible. Once the door is open, tiptoe back into the kitchen and start making oatmeal, prepare coffee, make some noise but not enough to wake the beast unnaturally. After a few minutes, peek back in bedroom to see if your toddler is standing up in his crib with his blankie and a smile. (If not, abort! I repeat, abort mission!) Seriously, I live in a hostage situation where my 2 year old holds all the cards. Oh sure, I'm sure I could do something like just turn the light on and wake him upby plucking him out of his sleepy slumber. Tough love, right? And then I'll drop his crank-tastic, have a 20 minute meltdown over oatmeal, crabby diapered butt off at your house. (Then you'll understand, not only the ritual, but also why I'm so clucking crazy.)

This is followed by 25 minutes of me trying to get my 8 year old to do something: "Please get up and get dressed. Right now. Seriously. Hurry up. Don't forget to make your bed. What are you doing in there? How long does it take to make your bed? What do you mean you aren't even dressed yet? We have to leave in 25 minutes, you haven't even eaten breakfast AND you're not even dressed yet? Yes, you have to eat breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day. Eat NOW please. No, you can't have cookies. Have cereal (with ten times the amount of sugar than cookies) instead. Stop playing with your iPod and eat please. Okay, let's get moving, we're leaving in ten minutes. Eat! Drink your milk. Alright finish your cereal and then drink the milk but please get a move on. Ok, put your bowl into the sink and get your shoes on. Where are you? I thought I told you to get your shoes on. Of course you have to poop three minutes before we need to walk out the door, what was I thinking trying to get out of here on time. Ok, let's hustle. Shoes. Coat. Hello, are you forgetting something? Where's your backpack? Yeah, you'll probably need that. Did you put your lunchbox in there? Ok, we're only 7 minutes late today, I think that might be a record for this month."

And if the eight year old actually has his act together that morning, that is usually the day the two year old has the aforementioned meltdown because the oatmeal wasn't a s'mores pop tart. I mean, low fat yogurt with healthy blueberries and granola. Yeah, that. Because I would never feed my kids pop tarts and rename them breakfast crackers so that I don't get hassled by the nutrition police for feeding them junk for the most important meal of the day. Or have to follow up said lecture with a five minute explanation that when your child has decided to be the pickiest eater in the history of the world, you're just happy to get through a meal with food being ingested, even if it's mostly empty calories covered in frosting. We have plenty of years to force feed vegetables, but let's not start this morning because I'm already running late and mommy needs her grown up time now.

Right?

I Color Outside The Lines

Apparently, adult coloring books are a thing now. No, really, like a major deal. There are special books for adults to color in (for those times when Elmo just doesn't fill that creative void) and special coloring pencils and everything. (Alright, admittedly, I'm not sure the colored pencils are special. They might just be like an artist's grade or something. Definitely not the kind you find in the kids art supply aisle though.) This is a new trend that's designed to be, uh, therapeutic? I think that's probably what they're going for, right?

The thing is, I've seen some of the "adult" coloring pages and they really just look like black and white paisley designs or swirl art without the paint. Do they make actual coloring books with like THINGS in them? Do they cater them to professions perhaps? "The Big Book of Baking Coloring Pages" or "101 Supreme Court Justices to Doodle On"?

I'm seriously asking because I don't know.

The reason I have to ask is that I have kids. So if the wild urge to color a picture comes upon me suddenly, I grab the closest coloring book I can find, which is probably filled with Big Bird or Bubble Guppies, try to hunt down a few unbroken crayons, and go to town. I can create beautiful pictures of fictional fish, life sized muppet friends, and awesome firetrucks. Then I will write my name at the bottom and hang it on the fridge. (Ha! Kidding. I'd write one of the kids names on it since it would probably be half-assed and half finished. I'm not claiming that Picasso.)

Maybe I don't understand this hip new phase because my downtime hobbies are reading or watching tv or maybe playing a brain building game on my phone. (By brain building I mean completely brainless, absolutely addictive farming/jewel/word game.) You know, adult hobbies. Yeah, I know, I'm probably going to get some serious scowls and complaints from the adult coloring world, but I just don't get it. Do these people know about Netflix? iPods? Libraries?

As if this whole thing wasn't disturbing enough, I was casually perusing my Face Book wall the other day and I happened to stumble across this:

Instead of paint swatches, you just need Crayola's box of 96!

(Actually, it wasn't this same exact thing but it's similar enough that you get the idea.)

What's this, you may ask? It's adult coloring wallpaper. Yes, you read that right. It's walls that you can color on. You know, the same thing you just yelled at little Amy for doing the other day? Generations of parents have taught their kids to color on paper and NOT the walls, only to grow a generation that creates wall to draw on.

Call me lazy, but I like my wallpaper already colored on. By professional designer type people. Ok, that's actually a total lie, I don't like wallpaper at all. But if I did get a rare form of amnesia that made me forget prior decorating preferences and I all of a sudden had a hankering for some wallpaper to be put up in my house, it wouldn't be the kind I had to color. I'd probably look through a sample book of swatches with pretty colors, designs, and textures that people (who were paid to do this job) came up with from their super creative, totally not sleep deprived or brain dead from too many episodes of Sponge Bob brains. Then I'd probably have to pay someone to come put it up in my house because how the hell can I get that on straight and not look like a drunken monkey did it?

Hopefully I don't develop that rare form of amnesia.

So if you're looking for an awesome new hobby, take up sky diving. Kidding. That sounds dangerous. Pick up an adult coloring book. I don't know where you'd buy them. But someone should know. And get some new crayons. It's hard to color inside the lines with those broken ones.

The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Another holiday season has come to a close. The gifts are all unwrapped. The cookies have been eaten. (And eaten. And eaten some more.) But the icing on the gingerbread house? Santa left a stomach bug in somebody's stockings. Or, uh, britches?

Santa spreads the love. Stomach virus anyone?

Okay, so technically it didn't start until the day after Christmas, so maybe the jolly old man in red didn't leave it after all. (But you have to admit, the timing is a little coincidental.) If you've ever had a stomach virus, know that having a child with a stomach virus is about 1,000 times less fun. Basically they turn into little crapping, puking machines with extremely poor aim. For some reason, it seems to affect the littlest ones in my house and sure enough, the almost 2 year old is the one currently afflicted.

The good news is, by kid number four, puke pretty much doesn't even faze me anymore. I'm more upset about the non-stop laundry I've been doing than the hands and knees Clorox scrubbing my floor has been getting. And the smell....why is it that a vomit-y stench can permeate every molecule of air in your house and make it feel like you live in a puke bowl? There's nothing worse than that sick smell in your house. It makes you feel unclean. It makes you feel contaminated.

It sends you running for the Vitamin C and Lysol.

Yes, that mad woman laughing maniacally whilst running from room to room with an aerosol can and a vitamin container...that's me. Clorox wipes. Check. Disinfecting spray. Check. Extra large jug of laundry detergent. Check. Making sure not one single body more than necessary gets infected by the creeping crud that has invaded our abode? Absolutely check, check, and please God if you can hear me, triple check.

The saddest thing is that the poor kid can't seem to shake it. Today was day four and I, completely concerned bordering on I might have to panic, called the doctor's office. Did you know that these damn viruses can hang around for seven to ten days? Let me repeat that. SEVEN TO TEN DAYS. It's possible that he'll have periods of non-puking activity. He might even stop crapping for a few hours. Only to have it return intermittently and without warning. I think this could be used as a form of torture for some evil dictator in a B grade action flick.

"Muah ha ha ha. If you won't talk, I'll give you the Really Horrible Stomach Virus That Never Ends. You'll dream of that upchuck smell for years to come! Muah ha ha ha ha."

Seriously? This thing is like a Christmas fruitcake. No one wants it but it gets passed around every year anyway.

I hear fruitcake makes a lovely doorstop though.

So if you want to visit, you might want to wear a hazmat suit. Or wear a mask. Or bring a Lysol grenade. Otherwise, you might end up with the gift that keeps on giving. And giving. And giving.......

A Heaping Plate of Thanks

In honor of Thanksgiving today, I'm going to take a moment to reflect on the things that I'm thankful for. So put on your "fat" pants, grab another piece of pie, and settle in for:

Modern Mom Mayhem's Stuff I'm Thankful For And Stuff

1. I'm thankful I only have four kids. Sure, that last one was a surprise and I almost only had three kids, but it could have been worse. (I mean, uh, better?) I think my sanity ship is starting to sail away without me. This last kid is trying to kill me. Or in the very least, tire me out so I fall asleep first and he can drag the chair over to the counter, climb up, and get the cookies out of the cookie jar. Just think, if that last pregnancy had been twins, or even triplets, I'd be in the asylum by now. I think of all those parents with multiple kids (Octomom, the Duggars) and just want to ask them , "Why?" Don't get me wrong, I love my kids to death and ain't nobody gonna mess with my cubs. I just wish they came with a calm button. Or possibly a let mom nap for twenty minutes button.

2. I'm thankful for a husband who lets me find the Barry Bonds of turkeys every year and doesn't even pick on me (for more than an hour). I can't pinpoint when my love of Thanksgiving morphed into something a little more sinister and turkey full, but I LOVE finding a big, ol, fat turkey for roasting every year. This year will probably go down in history as the biggest turkey, topping the scale at 26 (and a bit) pounds. Okay, okay, it was closer to 27. Hey, listen, when you stumble upon those big boys and they're only 44 cents a pound, what are you supposed to do? Get a smaller turkey? (Snort) Unlikely! Go big or go home people! I want to have have enough turkey leftover for, oh, a week at least. I want my family to be so sick of turkey that my half-assed throw together meals on hectic week nights look like filet mignon. "Wow Mom, this grilled cheese sandwich is awesome!" Take the win when you can moms.

3. I'm thankful for a job that gives me Thanksgiving off. To all the people who work Thanksgiving, you are awesome and I hope someone in your life is saving you a plate of carbtastic awesomeness. But if I had to work I'd only be able to get a runty little 16 or 17 pound turkey and it would make me very, very sad. Not to mention all the rest of the meal that can be high maintenance. The mashed potatoes and the stuffing and the gravy and the rolls. So thank you employer, for giving me the entire day to be a Thanksgiving zealot.

4. I'm thankful for Thomas St. Turkey for inventing the Best. Holiday. Ever. What do you mean that isn't who invented it? Just look on Wikipedia. But hold on a minute while I log on to Wikipedia......

5. I'm thankful for my DVR who dutifully bites the bullet and starts recording Christmas movies before the beautious Novemeber holiday has gotten to be fully appreciated. DVR knows that I'll need holiday spirit in the form of cheesy holiday movies and specials to keep me occupied during the stupid new trend of "television winter break", which is apparently a thing now. I don't know who thought a two month hiatus of all my kick ass prime time shows was a good idea, but that person needs to be downsized Ay-sap! (Let's not fire someone this close to Christmas, ya know?) So while I'm stuffing stuffing and gobbling the gobbler, my DVR has resigned itself to recording Its A Wonderful Life and Holiday in Handcuffs. Bless you, you gorgeous piece of machinery.

6. Most of all, I'm thankful for readers like you ho continually put up with my smart ass, whiny, piss and moan about everything attitude and still come back for more. You rock. No really, you do. Get yourself some pie. Or a roll. Maybe some stuffing and turkey too. Okay, okay, you might as well make a plate of leftovers. While you're up, could you get me one too?

They can't put anything on the Internet that isn't true, so when I saw this, I knew I had to do what I was told! 

An Apple a Day Feeds the Addiction

It’s hard to deny that there is an abundance of technology available to us these days. Everywhere I look on Facebook, there’s a meme about how smartphones are taking over today’s youth. (Yes, intentional irony inserted there.) The problem is, well, I’m a little bit of a technology-aholic myself. I mean, I love smartphones, tablets make life so convenient, and don’t even get me started on the love affair between me and my DVR.

So, while I do the normal parental monitoring, make my kids get exercise and technology-less life experiences, I kind of feel like a hypocrite. Like my mouth is saying, ‘Put down that tablet/phone/video game and go play outside!” but my mind is saying, “Oooh, I can’t wait to see what my DVR has in store tonight!” Or "Play a board game together!" says the mouth but “Damn you Words With Friends, I need better letters!” chimes in my mind.

Right now, I’m only one or two Apple products away from having half a bushel. Okay, I’m exaggerating. I’d need at least everything other than the phone and tablet to make an entire bushel. Although….I am eyeing the watch, which, let’s face it, is completely stupid for a working mother of four with introvert tendencies who enjoys sitting in pajama pants at home with a book or the aforementioned bestie, DVR, most of the time.

Yet I still want it.

Because what I really need is another gadget hooked up to my iTunes account, right?

Come on, tell me you haven’t seen the commercials and thought, ‘Wow, that’s one cool little gadget. I really want one.” Oh, you haven’t? Hmm, maybe you aren’t as connected to your inner child as I seem to be. My inner child downs marshmallow cereal, chocolate milk, and screams, “I want it” on every toy commercial that comes on between my Saturday morning cartoons. Well, at least if those toys are cool electronic gadgets that I feel that I MUST own. And the cartoons are actually prime time dramadies or sitcoms. And the marshmallow cereal is uh, something more grown up and sophisticated like candy corn or mint cookie ice cream or something.

Sadly, it’s not even limited to just Apple products either.
           
Take the Vivofit wrist thingy. I first saw it used on The Biggest Loser. Then I started to see the commercials. Since I constantly struggle with my weight (Read: I love eating a lot more than I love exercising) I figured that this thing would be an amazing thing for me. Get me moving! Get me motivated…..wait, what? Ninety nine freaking dollars? Ok, maybe I can motivate myself since that costs me zero dollars. Now, of course, as is the way with all things technological, there are plenty of other similar type products on the market. (I don’t have any of them, but I DO have an amazing collection of pins on Pinterest that tell me about awesome workouts designed to get into shape that I never again look at after I pin them, so I feel like it all washes itself out in the end.)

So we have the “grown up” tech that I adore, like the tablets, DVR genie, GPS and satellite radio. But there's also the “kid tech” which not only do my kids want, sometimes I want too. Case in point: The PS4. Now, we have the PS3, so really, this isn’t a big leap for us. The marketing a-holes know that if they only make the cool games for the PS4, it'll it’s kinda forcing our hand to upgrade. Which wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t like a gajillion dollars for a PS4. Alright, alright, it’s only like $400. But still. Damn. That’s a lot of moola. Needless to say,  we’re still in the “Let’s hope the PS4 fairy really exists and one day we will wake up to find one in our living room.” phase of buying right now. Or the “Maybe Santa will give his elves a huge Christmas bonus this year and they will feel extra jolly and start raining down awesome game systems of joy upon the little people" phase. Hey... maybe those marketing, uh, geniuses, will lower the price so that all of us techies who are jonesing for their next upgrade fix can afford their electronics habit.

Until then, visions of sugarplums, Vivofit bands, and Apple watches will dance in my head.

Look, there's someone else out there with a tech obsession!

I Said Reading is Fun Dammit!

Most parents know that their upgraded status comes with many hats. Chauffeur, chef, personal trainer, dictator.....but what they might not have realized, especially if their children haven't reached school age yet, is that they also get to be the reading Nazi.

It starts as soon as they they're in utero. Ok, ok, that's not true. Probably not until kindergarten. And they probably wait until you can read small worlds like cat, dog, and encyclopedia. As soon as those milestones are achieved, however, all bets are off.

Out comes the torturous "mandatory reading". Yes, these teachers must know that parents needed another thing for our kids to piss and moan about and therefore they added the nightly assignment of reading for 15 minutes. (Third grade is now twenty minutes!) Since I have to sign his planner every night and since I'm trying to bring him up with a modicum of ethics and morals, I cannot sign this until he has actually completed his reading. You'd think I just asked him to shove toothpicks under his fingernails judging by his reaction.

When I was his age (just a few short years ago!), we had a program called "Reading Is Fundamental" or R.I.F. for short. (Somehow, the -damental part got left off and we were just told "Reading is FUN!") It was always a great day where we got to go to the library and pick out a FREE book! Being the nerdlet that I was (am), I LOVED when R.I.F. day came around. To this day, I adore escaping into the pages of a book. So this is why I don't understand my children who don't enjoy reading. (So far I have one reader, one non-reader, and one who used to like to read until he found out he could probably find an app for that on his phone instead.)

See what they did there? It's FUN-damental!

My kids don't have R.I.F. Instead they have P.A.R.P. which stands for Parents As Reading Partners or Parents Are Really Punished, I'm not sure which. Every March they force us, I mean encourage us, to read with our children. Now, as I said, I enjoy reading. Except when you make me read with a sullen eight year old who wishes a wormhole would just appear and swallow his mean old mother who wants him to READ A BOOK! (The horror!) And even though they tell you reading to your child will give them an appreciation for books, this is not always the case. I cross my fingers that I am creating lifelong bookworms not only by taping a book to their hands every night (Ok, slight exaggeration, I'm out of duct tape right now.) but also by example when I have my nose shoved into my kindle or a library book.

So, for a few years now, we've had the hemming and hawing over the nightly reading assignment. This year we had his open house and the reading teacher stressed the importance of reading comprehension. Just reading for 20 minutes every night isn't enough, now we have to make sure they are at their reading level and understanding what they're reading. We should ask questions about the plot, the main characters, and whatnot. Wait, not only do I have to be the book warden, but now I have to quiz him? What's next? A book report? A three page term paper? At the risk of sounding old, I have to say, 'Back in my day, we just had to be able to read, they didn't care if we understood or not. Back then they told us reading was fun and we believed them!"

So every night when I see his planner open on the table, awaiting my signature, I know I'll have to ask the dreaded question.

"Did you do your reading?"

When I get the inevitable sigh/eye roll combination I"ll just yell, "Reading is fun dammit, now find a book! And you better be able to answer the five question quiz I've prepared for you!"

No pressure, but if they don't read they'll live in a van down by the river.