The Alphabet Wars

There was a generational war that started between the Millennials and Gen Z. It’s not the shoot ‘em up kind of war depicted in our history books, but apparently some type of culture war being waged on social media platforms. I say “apparently” because, as a member of Gen X, I am oblivious to this sort of petty infighting. Or maybe it’s that I am aware, I just don’t give a crap. (Yeah, probably that second one.)

The irony is that there always seems to be some sort of generational unrest. Every generation thinks that the “new kids” are completely different than their own clearly superior group. It probably started when the people born between 1901 and 1924 called themselves “The Greatest Generation”. That pretty much screwed all future generations and set them up for failure, right? I mean, if you’re already the greatest, you can only go downhill from there.

And it does seem to be true since those that followed (1928-1945) were called “The Silent Generation”. Then again, I’d be silent too having to live in the shadow of such greatness. Or maybe they were quiet because life had beaten them down so much they just didn’t see the point of raising their voice. Think about it, the average life expectancy back then was like 60. Not to mention that WWII came along and killed over 400,000 Americans.

After that came the Baby Boomers. (1946-1964) I’m guessing this generation celebrated the war a little too much, if you know what I mean. The name is pretty self-explanatory…yeah, all that post war celebrating (bow chicka wow wow) lead to a crazy amount of babies being born. Marvin Gaye didn’t have to tell this generation to get it on, they did it all by themselves.

And those babies produced during that boom? Generation X. This generation spanned through all the peace, free love and hippies (1964-1979). It’s quite possibly the best generation out there, and not just because it’s the one that I belong to. X’ers were raised on the cusp of the days of old and the technology of new, with one foot planted firmly in each world. We can remember 8 tracks and the AOL dial up sign on. We had the benefit of crazy, supervision free childhoods and new technology with fun names like Alexa and Siri.

Then the X’ers moved out and the Millennials moved in. (1980-1994) Legend has it that Millennials are the most suppressed, repressed, regressed, and depressed group that has ever lived. Well, at least in the last “millennium” that is. They will tell you tales of living through 911 and explain how the generations that lived before them have ruined the world. How they can’t afford houses and they live for work-life balance unlike their work horse predecessors.

Then came Gen Z. (I don’t know who was in charge of this, since they skipped the letter Y, but I can tell you that it definitely wasn’t someone with OCD.) Gen Z is “woke”. Apparently the rest of us sleepy generations don’t have a clue living in our classless, gender labeled, politically incorrect worlds. They were born with a smart phone in their hands and have never had the joy of using encyclopedias for information gathering. In fact, if you asked them what an encyclopedia was, they’d have to google it.

Ask any generation what is wrong with the next generation and they’ll have a dozen reasons to give. They’re lazy, stupid, have no values, lacked discipline, no rules or boundaries…the list goes on and on. One thing that they won’t do, however, is accept the blame in any of it. Yep, that’s right, I said it. Every generation screws their kids up somehow. Either we over correct or under correct, but damnit, we do something that causes them to cry foul. And seek copious amounts of therapy. I’m pretty sure it’s in the “Generational Living for Dummies Handbook”. Page 37.

So back to this culture war. I’m not sure who started it. I’m not even sure why. Or what the point is. All that I know is that it wasn’t enough for Millennials and Gen Z to do battle, no….they had to drag the X’ers in too. Here we are, minding our own business just like we were trained from infancy to do, and then BAM! Suddenly two generations noticed us sitting in the corner, out of the limelight. What they failed to recognize in their zealous attempt to yank us into their twisted game of monkey in the middle, was that we really don’t give a shit about your stupid little war. We have things to do and being forced to defend ourselves is not only unfathomable to us, it would never cross our minds that we would need to. Gen X was, and is, the feral generation that fended for ourselves so long and so early on in our lives, that it’s foreign to try and accept help from anyone for anything. Yeah, we’d probably give ourselves a hernia before asking someone to help us move this couch….but believe me when I say that couch would be moved regardless.

I guess the the moral of this story is this: Yeah, you're probably screwing your kids up. (Although, to be fair, I think we can give some of the blame to whomever named them "Generation Alpha".) Just think of it this way though, you're giving them a reason to feel superior to the next generation. And that ain't nothing.

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A Decade of Witty Repartee

Recently I realized that this I had been writing this blog for a decade now. (This blog is officially older than my youngest child!) When I went back to verify the actual date that I began regaling my loyal fans with my wordplay, I realized that it was actually in January of 2013.

I missed my own decade-iversary!

In my defense, it’s not really my fault. After all, there was zero fanfare made at all. I didn’t get a parade in my honor, there were no stars named after me (or the blog!), no ridiculously ginormous sized cakes with a big number 10 on it, and not one single mayor of any city that I have ever lived in gave me a key. What the heck?

I mean, I understand not all the fanfare, or even most of the fanfare, but couldn’t I at least get a little bit? If not a parade, how about one flautist carrying a banner? Instead of a continent sized cake, how about one or two (dozen) cupcakes? Sure, the star naming may have been reaching too big but surely a cloud could be named Modern Mom Mayhem. (But you can call him by his nickname…Bob.)

I’d still like a giant key to a city though. Not for the import, just because of how cool it would be to have a huge shiny key that’s as tall as I am. To be fair, I don’t really know if that’s how keys to the city work. I am basing this solely on my imagination here which is, admittedly, fueled by Hollywood's version of Mayor-giving-keys ceremonies. (Yeah, my imagination is a fun place.) For all I know, the key to the city is just a boring old key that is easily lost. Though, that doesn’t seem like a real great idea honestly. Can you imagine having to make that call to the locksmith?

“Uh, hi, is this John’s Locksmithery? I need you to come quickly, I’m locked out of the city.”

                Ten years ago, when I started these rants, uh, I mean blog posts, who knew that it would last this long? Who knew that you’d hang in there for ten whole years? Not YOU, but you. Not single you the reader, but like collectively you, as a whole. Unless you single reader has read for all ten years. (And if that is the case, what is wrong with you? And do you want to be friends?)

(Quick left turn: That fun imagination of mine is now having a field day with a picture of a collective you as one giant, lumpy, multi-person. Think Violet in Willy Wonka but with a bunch of people rolled into one. Or like a snowball that's rolled downhill and collected peoples. It's all you can think about now, isn't it? You’re welcome.)

                When my twisted and sarcastic co-worker thought that I should share my own twisted and sarcastic sense self with the world and convinced me to start blogging, I never would have dreamed that I’d still be hacking away at the old computer keys after all this time. And honestly, I’ve only gotten more snarky and sarcastic as I’ve gotten older, so this blog has really been a gift to you, single reader. And to you, lumpy collective reader. And to all the non-single and non-lumpy readers as well. From the bottom of my cynical heart and the top of my warped sense of humor, I thank you. Without you, I’d still just be talking to myself. (Well, more often and less wild gesticulating.)

                Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden and inexplicable craving for cake...

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A Tsunami of Stuff

Everyone knows that spring is when you’re supposed to get the mad urge to clean your house like a maid hopped up on 4 Grande Double Shot Espressos, but I’ve never been one to follow trends. I’m sure you’re shocked, right? (You need to work on a more believable disbelief expression.)

For me, there’s something about January that makes me want to purge and organize. Is it because I’m tired of being stuck in the house, staring at the same four walls jammed with accumulated crap? Maybe. Is it because indoor chores are much more fun to accomplish when it’s 20 degrees outside? Perhaps. Is it because spring is when we run screaming out of our houses to get away from our winter fueled cabin fever? Most likely. Whatever the reason, by the end of January, I’m itching to dive into “spring” cleaning.

The problem though, is that there’s a literal tsunami of stuff in my house. If I start to think of all the rooms, closets, drawers, desks, nooks and crannies that need to be cleaned out and organized, I start to hyperventilate a little. And everyone knows that you need to hyperventilate into a paper bag so when I go into the drawer to get one, I’ll see all THAT clutter and hyperventilate twice. (Re-ventilate? Hyper hyperventilate?) If you start to do the mental math on how many spaces there are that need to be tackled, the task becomes too overwhelming. I start to lose motivation. No seriously, motivation just starts seeping out of me. It’s kinda gross if you’re sitting too close to someone actively losing motivation. Try to carry wet wipes on your person at all times just for this very situation.

Wait, where was I again?

Hyperventilating….yadda yada yadda….losing motivation….yadda yadda yadda…

Oh right.

Once I lose the motivation by making mountains out of my completely respectable molehills, it usually results in a few weeks of being too overwhelmed to even pick a place to start on before I pull myself up by my boot straps, stop my whining and get down to business. Sometimes I need bootstraps AND big girl panties to deal with severe motivation loss.

Well, this week is my bootstraps week. My big girl panties wearing, get my act together, and get organized week. That’s right folks. I’m finally pulling my head out of that awful place where the sun doesn’t shine.

So now that I have a plan in place on where to start this monumentally huge task of getting rid of all the crap that I don’t want to keep storing in my home, I need to give myself a mental pep talk. Because the reality is, there are somethings that I cannot part with for any reason. Even though I KNOW that the reasons I have for keeping it may be stupid and illogical, it doesn’t seem to affect the process.

For example: While re-arranging my youngest son’s room this past weekend, I decided to clean out his bookshelf. At nine years old now, I’m pretty sure he can find the ducky. There were a stack of old Nick Jr. books that I have had since my oldest child. These things have to be over 2 decades old now. They aren’t even culturally relevant anymore. He has no idea who “Little Bill” or “Oswald” even are, considering those were popular shows 20 years ago. These things are older than him and two of his siblings.

Yet I can’t seem to make myself get rid of them.

These are books that have been passed down through all 4 of my children. ALL FOUR. I can look at these books and remember those chubby little toddler hands turning three pages at a time, babbling nonsense as they “read” the words. Man, are you getting hit in the feels as hard as I am? Geez. I think I need a moment here. That was a pretty strong emotion. I’m not sure where that cold hearted bitch went that used to reside in my body but she didn’t seem to cry or have all these pesky feelings that I do. I really miss her. But I digress. (AGAIN? Twice in one story? Get your crap together!) Oh wait, never mind, I found her.

In the end, I put the books back on his shelf. Even though they really are kindergarten age appropriate and he’s way too old for them. My husband laughed at my reluctance to part with these orange beacons of childhoods’ past and asked if we were just going to keep them for the grandkids. That’s a good enough excuse as any, right?

Provided I can bear to part with this clutter, (Wait, is this how hoarders are born? Do I need an intervention?) I hope to be much lighter of spirit. And stuff. Mostly stuff.

Okay coach, I’m ready. Put me in the game.

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December Doldrums Strike Again

You know how sometimes you hear a quote or see something it feels like someone is seeing into your brain and capturing your thoughts? I saw a meme the other day that resonated with me. If you wondering what profound, deep, meaningful meme I may be referencing, it’s this:

Yup, it’s true. I don’t know why the days between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day seem like a big, black void, but they do. Christmas, with all its magic and splendor is over, but the bright, shiny New Year has yet to arrive in all its glory. (Though to be fair, in the Northeast it’s more of a “gray, cold and wet glory” than “shiny”.)

Exactly why do we seem to eat our way through an entire week? Are we still in the “holiday spirit”? Are we buckling under the presence of all the treats and sweets that have made their way into our homes? Did we let the beast out of the cage and can’t manage to wrest that jerk back in to shut and lock that door with triple deadbolts? Are we depressed that our house looks sad and pathetic after removing our festive garlands and lights and decorations? (Seriously, why does my home seem so lackluster now? Does this lead to more people redecorating their homes? Is there an HGTV show called “Help! My Home is Ugly without Christmas?” Uh, wait, what was my point again….)

And as if the empty, decoration less house and post-holiday blahs aren’t sad enough, all stores are starting to advertise the exercise equipment. Nothing signals the end of a good time quite like dumbbells and treadmills. Retailers are quite literally telling us to stop feeding our fat faces and take a walk. “Hey lardo, time to drop that weight you gained shoving Christmas cookies in your mouth for the last 3 weeks before you completely clog your arteries.” It’s almost like they know that “Lose weight” is on 75% of all of our resolution lists and they’re taking advantage of our current self-loathing to make a quick buck. Those canny, evil geniuses.

Personally, it’s not just the end of Christmas that’s disappointing to me, but also the expectations of New Year’s Eve. Everyone makes big plans for celebrations on December 31 and I used to be right up there with them. It was a tradition to stuff ourselves silly, play board games, and stay up to midnight to watch the ball drop. As I get older though, my feelings are more like, “Meh. It’ll still be a new year the next day, right? I’m going to bed.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to stuff myself silly and play board games and have fun, I just may or may not make it til midnight. I know I know, I’m turning into Maxine before my very eyes. Or maybe that old lady from the Steel Magnolias movie. She was sassy AND grumpy. But she told it like it was.

Outside of eating everything not nailed down during the void week, it also seems like a strange time period. Many offices are empty because of people who are using their time off. Banks and grocery stores are operating on different hours. Schools are closed so your kids are probably making you pull your hair out with all the noisy and/or annoying Christmas gifts they received. (You know, now that I think about it, it’s amazing that every parent has not turned into Ouiser yet. All the ingredients are there man, I’m telling you. Also, if you are like me, you’re just realizing that’s how they spelled her name for the movie and it’s super weird, right?)

Perhaps New Year’s Eve is a celebration for surviving the void week. Maybe that’s why everyone is so happy to see January 1 pop up on the calendar. It’s like saying, “Phew. We made it through the darkest, saddest, and strangest week of the year. Let’s have cake and cocktails.” (That would be an amazing restaurant idea. Just dessert and alcoholic beverages. Fruity umbrella drinks and pretty, frosted petit fours. Can someone make this happen? And close enough to me so that I can enjoy it? Thank you in advance.)

So for all my fellow survivors, buck up kids. We got this. And if we don’t, at the very least we can procure some cake and cocktails and pretend that we do. Happy End of December and Viva La 2023!

Parenting is an Emotional Roller Coaster

If there is anything that can get you “up in your feelings” (Hey, I can talk like a cool cat too!), it’s parenting. Good feelings, bad feelings, tired feelings….and more tired feelings. Exhausted feelings. Sleep deprived coma feelings. But enough about how much sleep you’ll never have once becoming a parent, this post is about feelings.

From day one there’s a wide variety of emotions over your child. Love for this tiny new miracle, rapture at counting their itty-bitty toes and fingers, relief that they are finally here, and utter terror because no one prepared you for this. Why did I think I knew what I was doing? I can’t take care of this incredibly small and fragile human. Where is my handy, dandy book that has every answer to every parenting question that I may ever have? Where are the experts to shadow me and make sure that I don’t screw them up? For the love of all that is holy, WHERE IS THE BUBBLE WRAP?!?!?!

Fortunately, we are mostly too tired to function during the early weeks. This anesthetizes us to the parental worries that plague us in our (brief) conscious moments and makes us reflexively care for the precious bundle of joy. By the time we realize we have been on auto pilot, we also realize, “Hey, maybe I CAN do this after all.” (You’re fooling yourself of course. We all are. None of us know what we are doing. Some of us just fake it better than others. Some of us medicate with chocolate cake and coffee. Fine, It’s me. I’m some of us.)

As they grow, learning how to walk and talk, they’ll add a wider and more complex variety of emotions to your repertoire. You’ll experience new awesome feelings like frustration!  Immense pride! Gritting your teeth while practicing deep breathing as you try to teach yourself to be calm. Mentally counting to ten when your sweetest little angel tries your patience. Fortunately, it only happens once every…. hour or so. Every day. From ages two through…. well, I’ll let you know when it finally stops over here.

Once they start school, you’ll learn to become good friends with guilt (Am I spending enough time with them? Am I feeding them enough vegetables? Should I be reading to them more? Are they ahead socially thus making their introvert parent have to mingle at boisterous gatherings? Shudder.), understand how frustration matures into fully formed exasperation, and find the value of alone time to recharge your batteries. Even if it’s just a two minute mental breakdown in the hall closet while you inhale half a package of chocolate chip cookies.

The teen years bring tons more of that exasperation along with fun new emotion combos. Like annoyance love. How is it possible to be SO ANNOYED by someone that you love SO MUCH? (Oh, it’s possible honey. And your teenager is up to the challenge of showing you how.) Disgusted pride. How can socks smell THAT BAD after you’re bursting with pride that your kid played an awesome game of (sports game inserted here). (Oh my god. The stench is truly abominable. Did something die in your shoes? Are you sure? No, no, don’t bring them in the house. Just leave them on the porch. The neighbor’s porch.) And of course, the classic and time honored “exhaustipation guilt”, when you’re too tired to give a crap but usually feel guilty that you’re too tired to give a crap, which usually results in an endless loop. Thankfully, it only lasts 21 to 60 years or so.

Yup, our kids can tug at our heartstrings and dance on our last nerve. Sometimes at the same time. (That’s a talented kid there. You should be so proud of their skills!) They test us by seeing how fast we can move when we see them put something in their mouth that we know they aren’t supposed to have. They push against our boundaries, testing our patience. They make our grinch hearts grow three sizes…and then shrink again when we find out they broke that vase and lied about it. In short, parenting isn’t for the faint of heart.

But, and I’m just spit balling here, has anyone thought that newborns should come with a parent size prescription of Xanax? Asking for a friend.

 

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I Fought My Inner Child and Lost

           Today is Halloween and you know what that means. Yup, my sister has already asked me for Christmas ideas. More importantly though,  it’s the day that we let our kids live action role play as costumed candy beggars, wandering darkened streets in search of that sweet, sweet sugar high.

If you can remember back to the good old days of your misspent youth when you used to participate in this most cherished childhood ritual, then you’re probably thinking of those awful plastic masks that we had to wear. You know, the ones with the two tiny eye holes and a slit for the mouth? It used to get all slimy from our hot breath and the eye holes would never line up properly, giving you a sight range of like 28% at any given moment. Man, those were the days, weren’t they?

Now that we’re old, we have to rely on our own kids (grandkids, nieces, nephews, strange orphan children that aimlessly wander our neighborhoods on only Halloween) to live vicariously through. Sure, we may be old enough to buy our own candy now, but it doesn’t taste as good as the free stuff. In order to get that awesome Halloween variety mixture that your kids come home with, it would take at least 15 different bags of candy. Have you seen how expensive that stuff is? I’m just looking for a sweet fix, not a mortgage payment! I really feel like I didn’t appreciate those handouts as much as I should have when I was younger.

I shouldn’t have to mention that this is the time where genetics could have helped me out. Short, uh I mean vertically challenged, statures would certainly help blend in with that school age crowd. Especially since masks could hide those fine lines and wrinkles that would surely out me as too geriatric to participate in this tradition. Sure, I’d most definitely have to go to a different town in order to successfully pull this off, one of the downsides of living in a small town where everyone knows your name, but unlike small children, I have a driver’s license. (So there twerps!)

If I’m planning on stealth mode, I’d probably have to go sans children. As much as I love that smallest jerk of mine, he’d definitely rat me out at the first house.

Person: “Oh, I love your scary mask!” My kid: “That’s my mom!”

Sadly, this leads me to admit that my height detriment is not the only hole in this plan. Unless I bribed him with all of my Reese’s…….

Realistically, I know that we are supposed to graduate from trick or treating to “adult Halloween parties” where we get to dress up and alcohol is the candy substitute. But honestly, I’d rather just have the candy. While the scale is sure to betray me the following morning, at least I won’t have a hangover from over indulging in my sweets habit. Not to mention, too much candy has never given me the false confidence that I can indeed karaoke. I have never felt that sharp sting of betrayal from candy. Alcohol is all pretty lies and consequences of my actions. Sugar is just straight forward fun and unapologetic weight gain. Was it worth it? I think you know how I’d answer that.

Halloweening at those grown up parties tend to have lots of guests as well. WAY more than the handful that I’m comfortable with. We introverts try not to people if we can absolutely get away with it. Especially at this point of the year when we know that we will have to prepare for the barrage of the family parties that the holidays will bring. We like people, there’s just a limit to how long we can be exposed before melting into a human shaped puddle. That social battery of mine needs constant re-charging, usually with periods of silence and blissful alone time. As a parent, I don’t get a lot of alone-ness, but I tend to revel in it when I do manage it.

So for all my fellow adults who will be trekking the streets with their costumed miscreant tonight, getting ALL of the steps and NONE of the Snickers, I feel your pain. Know that your cold comfort is the solidarity of all the other sad, reminiscent adults trudging out in this chilly fall weather. (Shout out to my fellow East Coast-ers.) On the bright side, I’m sure that there’s a reason a Milky Way bar won’t make it through quality control’s candy check later tonight, right? (Wink , wink)

 

 

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Random Thoughts That Keep Me Up at Night

             I’ve never been one of those people who can go to bed at night and be asleep in 4.6 seconds. My style is more like “contemplate every single thing you haven’t had time to think about during the day because you were too busy”. Here is some of the stupid stuff that runs around my brain when I can’t fall asleep right away.

What is the point of FaceBook hacking? Can someone explain this to me? I could understand if it was only rich and famous people getting hacked but Norma Smith from Idaho, a 67 year old pinochle playing grandmother? What does she have to offer? Are you just dying to get her family recipe for tuna noddle casserole?

FaceBook hacking became so common that they now offer 2 factor authentication. (For those of you not in the technology know, that means there are 2 different methods of verifying it’s really you, usually a cell phone number or another email address.) I have to assume that the 2 factor authentication is successful since I’ve gotten a few text messages from someone trying to hack my FaceBook. The good thing about this is that now I can be aware of when someone is trying to hack me instead of being blissfully unaware like I was previously. It’s a real boost to the self-esteem to know that someone thinks that I’m important enough to hack.

The bigger question is, why FaceBook? I mean, I’m not trying to encourage hacking in any way but is FaceBook the best use of those skills? Think Matthew Broderick in “War Games” level hacking. Make it something super epic and insist that someone cool portray you in the movie they’ll make about it. Like Ryan Reynolds. (I mean, is there anything that man can’t do?)

You know another thing that chaps my ass? These idiot men who cheat on their smoking hot wives. The latest scandal involves Adam Levine. If you don’t know who that is, you have been living under a rock, or maybe you just have a rare form of amnesia that affects forgetting pop music icons. So this lead singer of Maroon 5 is married to a Super model. They have 2 kids and she’s currently incubating the third. (Yeah, awesome time for this type of scandal to surface, right?) Who the hell cheats on their SUPER MODEL wife? And if he would cheat on a woman who looks like that, I’m sure the rest of us average Janes should probably just pack it in right now.

And for those that would argue that sending a bunch of flirty texts or “just a kiss” isn’t cheating, I call bullshit. The intention is there. Are you telling me that if any one of these flirty women didn’t give the green light to jump her bones that he would draw a hard moral line there? Yeah, I don’t see it. What kills me is that I don’t even think he’s that good looking. Granted, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that but seriously, all I can see is an ex-high school nerd who found success and let it go to his head. (A super model for God’s sake.) I don’t know, I just don’t get it.

Here’s another brain blaster. Do you know those stupid “One gotta go” posts that you see on social media? Usually it’s a series of photos of things and you have to choose for one thing to go. Like out of 4 desserts: apple pie, chocolate cake, cheesecake, and chocolate chip cookies. Why do I have to get rid of one? Who is making me do this? What if I want all 4 desserts? What happens then? What happens if I want to have my cake and eat it too? (har de har har)

I’ve come to the conclusion that the only purpose of these posts is to sow dissension. Because you know that most people have really strong feelings about everything and they feel the need to ram their opinions down your throat, you know, because that will change your mind to match theirs. So what will start as a debate on which season is the worst has the potential to devolve into an ugly fight with name calling and slinging insults. (And yes, I will be grabbing the popcorn to watch things get real. I’m only human you know. Plus I enjoy free entertainment.)

I just realized that there are so many things that I think of at night and that this blog could turn into a novel. So I will wrap it up with this one last thought: Why can’t women’s sizing be the same as men’s sizing? Why can they walk into a store and buy a pair of jeans that are tailored specifically to their leg length and waist width and women have to choose a pair using a single number? And that number is not going to fit the same depending on what store you go to either. A size 10 is different at JC Penney as it is in Old Navy. What kind of creepy psychological torturer came up with women’s sizing? Do we not have length and width the same as men? You’d think, considering that women have multiple curvy areas, that they would have been more interested in making sure that women’s clothing was more accurate. Of course, these are probably the same people who design bras and those are a never ending delight to wear as well. (She said with heavy sarcasm.)

For those of you who share my talent for thinking of inane thoughts while you are trying to fall asleep, feel free to share some of the best, funniest, or most absurd ones. (I’d really be interested in knowing that I’m not the only one having Jack Handey’s deep thoughts in the twilight hours.) Until I invent a cure for sleeping blissfully like a baby (or a man), I guess I’ll just keep these midnight ponderings.

 

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September's Split Personality

            Once upon a time, I eagerly looked forward to September, if only because it meant that my kids went back to school. Now, however, I have a mixture of dread and excitement. This leaves me unsure of how I really feel about the impending month change.

On one hand, who isn’t ready for crunchy leaves and pumpkin muffins? Or apple pies and football? First day of school photos and shiny new sneakers? Ever since I was a child myself, September has carried that excitement of new classes, new teachers, and, most importantly, notebooks that haven’t been written in yet. (Yup, once a nerd, always a nerd.) Now that I am a parent, I get to experience that same excitement through my children, though admittedly they aren’t always as enthusiastic as I am about it. (Apparently not everyone feels like I do about clean notebooks. I just don’t get it.)

But on the other hand, I am fairly confident that the school year is what has been speeding time up. Tomorrow it’s September 1 but then you blink and it’s June again. So am I really excited for this time thief month to arrive? Hmm, not so much.

On one hand, I really need the clothing layers that cooler weather brings. I’m tired of sucking my stomach in. I need the blubber camouflage that only a sweater or a flannel can bring. And I’m pretty sure that I’m REALLY going to need that camouflage once the fall comfort foods kick in. Soups, stews, casseroles, holiday delectables, pastas, breads, and more holiday treats. I want all of them. But it means I need to break out my casual pants and cardigans for this endeavor to be successful.

On the other hand, if I eat all the bad foods, I need to do all the bad exercise. Is there anything more torturous than exercise? Ugh. Why couldn’t I have born one of those weirdos who have the metabolism of a 5 year old their entire lives? Is that so much to ask for? If I can’t have that metabolism, then I need someone to put Sweating to the Oldies in a 90’s hip hop version. (Hey, my oldies aren’t Richard Simmons’ oldies. What are you going to do?)

And on another hand, where am I getting all these hands from?

Seriously, though, points in favor of September…. Apple picking. Pumpkin flavored everything. Beautiful fall foliage. <SINGING> Are you ready for some football?

Counter points that show September’s darker more evil side… Shorter days. Less sunshine. The death of summer. <SINGING> All the leaves are brown, and the skies are gray.

I guess I’m just going to have to clone myself so that one of me can hate September and one of me can love it. (Though I promise the clone me will have a better name than Dolly. #clonehumor) Until then, I guess I can only hope that one day my kids know the joy of buying college ruled notebooks for twenty nine cents and frothing with imagination over all the things that they can one day write in them.

 

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Why is My To-do List Never To-done?

I think that we can all agree that adulting isn’t all that we imagined it would be when we were kids. Do you remember how excited we were to grow up and do anything we wanted? Boy, that didn’t turn out that well for us, did it?

First of all, we were all eager to grow up so we could stay up as late as we want. Turns out that if we do that as an adult, we are tired for the next 3.5 years. If you add up all the nights we went to bed “too late”, you’ll understand that this cumulation is the sole reason we are perpetually exhausted. Our current tally of nights that we would need to go to bed early to get back on track is around 37,297. At this point, we might as well just watch one more episode anyway.

Another thing that was going to be so cool about being an adult was having money. What we failed to factor into our nine year old dreams was that there are vile things called “BILLS” that also like our money. Now that we are grown and have to pay for our food and electricity and cars, it’s not as exciting to have our own money. And don’t even get me started on the taxes! What kind of adult bullshittery is this? I lose 1/4 of my check before I even get to see it.

Then there was the fact that we couldn’t wait to grow up and have our own kids and not only would we be 100 times cooler than our own parents, our kids would be awesome and perfect in every way. It turns out when we actually did have kids, we found out that we turned into our parents. And that the kids were only awesome like 43% of the time but we live with them 100% of the time. (Thus proving that math has failed me yet again.)

We also thought that we were going to have tons of friends and fun things to do when we got older. Now we are older and we’re like, “Ugh, do we HAVE to leave the house?” And “Ugh, people.” Now that we are fully formed adults, can we all just agree that socializing is overrated? Let’s just Netflix and Ben & Jerry’s. Nothing says socializing like sitting with your spouse binge watching Forensic Files marathons in your sweats.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there is nothing quite like the innocence of childhood. But man, we were so stupid! Why we ever thought that growing up was FUN is beyond me. We get to go to work 5 days a week and during the 2 days “off” we get to catch up on all the stuff that we can’t get done during the work week. My To-do list now has it’s own To-do list. I turned my back and they had little To-do list babies. They’re spawning at an alarming rate, which is frustrating because I was under the impression that lists were something that had the capability of being finished. This law doesn’t seem to be applicable to the mighty to-do list. It’s never “Ta-da, I’m Ta-Done with the To-Do’s!” Instead I seem to add 2 things for ever one crossed off. This list is like one of those bad dreams where you’re running for your life from a monster with “TO-DO” written on its sweatshirt and then it turns out that you’re running on a never ending list that ends up having a creepy paper face that starts laughing like an evil villain…. ok, yeah, I might have too vivid of an imagination.

 Where was I again?

Oh right, kids rule and adults drool. Do our kids even realize how good they have it? Of course not. They are too busy being impatient to grow up so that they can stay up late and spend all their money on video games and party like it’s 1999.

 Little do they know that old is hiding around the corner, waiting to kick their ass. Run kids! Before it’s too late!

 I guess what I am trying to say is that I give adulting a bad Yelp review. 10/10 don’t recommend. If at all possible, don’t grow up. Stay a Toy’R’Us kid forever and don’t forget to drink your ovaltine.

 

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The Fantastic Fuqery Expedition

           Sometimes, when something just doesn’t seem to go your way, your first thought usually isn’t "This will make a funny story someday.” (Although maybe if it was, we might have better coping skills. Right?)

 Anyway, one of my goals has been to take a trip with each one of my children separately. That way, when I’m old and feeble, they’ll have those pleasant memories of "that time mom and I went on vacation”.

This year it was my 15 year old’s turn.

First of all, let me say that I’m not quite prepared for him to be 15. I’m not sure what happened, but I’m pretty sure I blinked and he went from 5 to 15. Secretly, I think he’s been cheating at this whole “growing up” thing and has been sneaking in extra years at bedtime. That is just the only logical explanation that I can come up with for why he’s a giant man child now with a fuzzy caterpillar above his lip.

But I digress.

The trip started off with not one, but TWO delayed flights. I tried not to think that it might be an indicator of how the rest of the trip was going to go, but to be honest, it wasn’t off to a great start. The flight was already kind of a crap show because it was overshooting our actual destination, then making us wait around an airport for 3 hours before backtracking to our final stopping point. Then we tacked on a delay out of both airports and it turned out that we didn’t get to our B’n’B until 11 pm. Do you know how exhausting hanging around an airport and sitting on an airplane can be? Who would have thought that a whole day of doing nothing could be so draining. You might as well have stuck a fork in us because we were done.

We retrieve the rental car and that was a pretty cool process because they literally turned us loose in this giant parking garage and said, “Choose any from row 3.” I then found out that I choose rental cars like I choose my scratch off lottery tickets: not well and with bad luck. If you’re wondering how that can even happen, let me start off by saying that the mileage was in kilometers. KILOMETERS. My son is performing conversions on his phone for me while I’m trying to keep up with the insane psychopaths intent on mowing us down with their vehicles. At the end of the trip he says, “It’s not that hard you just have to count x miles for every x kilometers.” Uh, no, sorry. I can’t math AND drive at the same time. It’s literally why they gave me that handy little gauge that says mph. Talk about distracted driving. “Here, solve for x while driving 55 mph with 3 lanes of cars all pissed off that you’re not driving at breakneck speed like they want you to.” Uh, no thanks, I’ll pass.

On top of not making it to our rental place until that late, but we weren’t able to get to Walmart to grab staples like coffee, food, coffee, water, did I mention COFFEE?!?!?!? Walmart closed at 11. We were there at 10:51. They lied.

My husband was extremely thankful to be multiple states away from me the next morning, I’m sure.

We make a trek first thing to get that life giving magic bean juice for mama and were immediately accosted by a homeless woman asking for pennies. So that she could stop sleeping at the bus stop. Now, while I sympathize with her plight, it’s early o’clock and I have zero caffeine in me. I’m impressed that I have functioning brain cells. I can’t handle this kind of ambush at this hour. Sadly, I informed her that I didn’t carry cash, which is a completely true story that you can validate with my husband. (Although if you DO confirm it, you’ll probably have to hear about how it’s a conspiracy that I don’t carry cash and that he does. Don’t listen to it. Lies. All of it.)

Luckily, the fuqery seemed to have calmed down after that. Other than the insane psychopaths trying to mow us down every time we traveled on the highways. Fortunately, Siri has a handy little “avoid highways” option that we utilized so that we could travel at a much more sedate, lower blood pressure pace. The flight Gods smiled down on us for our return flight…if you don’t count that the airline switched us from 9am to 7am. This meant that I had to be awake at NOPE o’clock and peel my eyeballs open long enough to shove contacts in while hooking up that IV of coffee directly to my vein. If you ever have the opportunity to get up at 4:00 in the morning, I highly DO NOT suggest it. 10 out of 10 would not recommend.

At the end of the day though, we had a lovely time. We visited some fun places and got to spend some quality time together. Plus now, we get to have that great story. 

"Hey, remember the time our rental car was in kilometers?” (And we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh.)

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Want to send me a personal note, a comment, or give me a fantastic new pun to add to my         collection? (Never trust atoms. They make up everything.) Send a message to                             modernmommayhem@gmail.com.