Sunday, March 30, 2014

Sleeping In

He knocks on the bedroom door at 6:45 a.m., climbs into bed, slides his arm under my neck, and pulls me in so that our cheeks are squashed together.  “I didn’t need to bring Lamby,” says the little voice.  “I have you.”  Lamby being his favorite stuffed animal, this is quite an honor.  We lay there in peace for several seconds.   This is nice.  Maybe we’ll both fall back asleep until 9:00 a.m.

There’s a foot in my stomach.  The little voice can no longer stand the silence and begins to ask questions.  It begins to form hypotheses.  If it’s light outside, shouldn’t we be getting up?  Why aren’t we getting up if it’s light outside?  The conversation abruptly turns to trail mix.  They made some at school.  Ingredients are listed.  More questions are raised.  There were pretzels in the trail mix, but there were also pretzels in another bowl.  Why?  Why is this?  I MUST KNOW THIS RIGHT NOW.

I don’t know.  I’m sorry.  I’m starting to get a crick in my neck.  I roll over, check the time.  6:49.  The sight of one of my eyelids popping open has set off alarm bells in his head. 


“Can we have pancakes?”  he asks.  Now he’s sitting up.  There is zero chance that he'll lay back down again.  Maybe not ever. 

“Not today, buddy," I say.  "We’re going to a birthday party and you’re going to have a lot of cake and stuff.”

“Why can’t we have pancakes?”

“I just told you.”

Almost imperceptibly, the little head starts to rotate.   Weekends are nothing but a slow descent into The Exorcist.


“Okay, okay.  I have to go to the bathroom though.”  I take my phone into the bathroom and sit on the toilet.  I read some Facebook and try to get my eyes to open all the way.



“On the toilet.”





“I need water.”

The doorknob starts to jiggle.   I wouldn't be all that surprised if he flattened himself out and slid under the door, like Judge Doom after he got steamrolled.  I let him in.  He gets some water.  We head out into the hall. 

"Let's go downstairs, buddy.  I have to feed the cats."  

He collapses to his knees.  "I don't WANT to feed the cats." 

"Okay.  I didn't ask you to." 

>>Insert screeching pig squeal sound here<<
"What? What's the matter?"

"I WANT to feed the cats."

"Okay, go ahead then."


I stare in wide-eyed silence at what I can only describe as Gollum, hunched up on the floor, arguing back and forth with himself.

Except instead of arguing about whether or not he should kill Frodo and take back his Precious, he's arguing about whether or not he wants to feed the cats.  Or whether or not he wants his socks on.  Or whether or not he wants a hug.  This type of weirdness carries on over the course of the day.  It's only a matter of time before the pea soup projectile vomit starts flying.  But until then, I will assume this to be normal four year old behavior. 

I check the time.  7:02. 

It's going to be a long weekend.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Lessons Learned from a Day at the Mall

I will never have so many children that my family needs to form a human chain while walking through Macy's.

If there is one thing I enjoy less than other people's children, it is other children's parents.  I have a pretty strong aversion to Mom Voice:
"Do you think that was a good choice that you made? We need to absolutely make a better choice next time."  
God.  You know what really wasn't a good choice?  Saying those fucking words.  Maybe the fact that I don't have a Mom Voice is why my kid doesn't listen to half the stuff I say.  Whatever.  Totally worth it. 

If I am ever invited out by a pack of moms whose day will at some point include carrying around fifteen American Girl shopping bags, you guys can just go on without me.

If I ever have a 12 year old daughter, she will most definitely not wear her cheerleading half shirt in public.  Especially when public includes the guy with this mustache who works at the Lego store:

If my butt ever increases tenfold, I will not wear horizontally striped stretch pants. Let's just go ahead and say that I will never wear horizontally striped stretch pants under any circumstances.  That's a promise we can all feel good about.

I will not be caught dead pushing a double decker fire engine rental stroller.  As if the supermarket ones weren't clunky enough, just try fitting one of these into any store other than Sears.  Oh wait, that's the only store you're going into anyway. 

Listen up old ladies.  There are plenty of stores for older women who want to dress stylishly:  Ann Taylor, Talbots, Macy's.  Here are some stores you should not shop at:  Wet Seal, Forever 21, BeBe, that kiosk with the hair extensions.  I tell you this because I too will be an old lady someday, and I don't want to be the cause of any young man jumping out of his skin when the backside he's been checking out turns around and has my 80 year old face attached to it.  

Monday, February 17, 2014

Cozy Coupe Carts

Once you have kids, there are a few things that you wish had never been invented:  

1)  Stuffed animal claw machines
2)  Food with cartoon characters on it
3)  Arcades
4)  Drugs
5)  These: 

The above is an average sized one from the grocery store, which is bad enough.  Over at Lowes they have these seven foot long blue race cars that weigh about 400 lbs empty, never mind after you load it with your child, chainsaws, sledgehammers and whatever else I think people buy at home improvement stores.  God help anybody that gets in your way when you're navigating around corners - it's like you're steering the back end of a fire engine.

I have occasionally pushed my son around in one of these at Stop & Shop, and I have occasionally ended up jammed in the checkout lane.  Seriously, THEY DON'T FIT THRU THE CHECKOUT LANE.

This was me:

"Oh you just have to back it in," said the cashier after I was already hopelessly fucking stuck.  Thanks for the tip.  I basically destroyed the gum and candy rack, as well as a display of beef jerky, trying to unjam myself.  Finally I backed it in.  Okay, now what?  Frontwards or backwards, I'm still trapped at the back of the cart and can't reach my groceries because there's a CHILD'S OUTDOOR TOY CAR blocking access to the front.  Am I going to need to ask my kid to get out of the Coupe, climb up onto the roof, and hand me each item?  Is that what they want me to do? 

I obviously can't reach the stuff by squeezing around the sides, because to do that I would need to have the body mass of a paper doll.  Do we not live in a society where half of the population is obese?  What are all the other mothers doing?  Maybe I'm doing something wrong.  Maybe there's an Eject button that I don't know about, and you press it and the Cozy Coupe detaches and your kid just drives away and meets you out in the parking lot.  Otherwise, I just don't understand it.  

Does anyone else detest these things as much as I do? 

Friday, February 14, 2014

How We're Celebrating Valentine's Day At The Office

1.  Romantic working lunch for seven.

2.  Leaving pair of pink furry handcuffs for each of the secretaries.

3.  Hating anybody who gets flowers delivered.

4.  Checking if flower delivery guy has plans for tonight. 

5. Serving up a bowl of Corporate Jargon Conversation Hearts.

6.  Waiting on top of photocopier with long-stemmed rose between our teeth. 

7.  Waiting in backseat of office crush's car with box of chocolates and ski mask. 

8.  Consoling best friend in ladies room. 

9.  Wearing this to staff meeting:

Under this:

10.  Signing off all emails with excerpt from Gustave Flaubert's 1846 love letter to his wife:

I will cover you with love when next I see you, 
with caresses, with ecstasy.
I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, 
so that you faint and die.

Monday, February 3, 2014

Advertising Awfulness

Thanks to both my Friday night viewing of Pretty Woman on the Oxygen channel, and the approach of Valentine's Day, I've been overwhelmed by some seriously annoying women-centered advertisements lately.

"I always eat it all…just not all at once" says the voiceover.  So here we have this skinny woman eating what I imagine to be a mustard and lettuce sandwich alongside her 32 oz cup of Crystal Light.  After giving it a few seconds of thought - IF I DON'T EAT MORE I'M GOING TO PASS OUT IN FRONT OF THIS FOOD TRUCK - she closes the lid and decides to take the second half home for later.  Seriously?  The sandwich wasn't even that big, never mind that there weren't any chips or fries or pickles anywhere to be seen.  So we're teaching women to feel guilty if the don't split a 300 calorie sandwich between two meals?  I'm not Bob Harper or anything, but I don't think this is healthy advice even if you are 700 lbs.  AND THIS WOMAN ISN'T EVEN REMOTELY FAT.  Thanks Crystal Light.  I bet that giant glass of aspartame that you're encouraging us to sip on all afternoon is way healthier than a few extra slices of turkey.  #Tinywin!

"My routine?  Gym.  Coffee.  HauteLook."   Fuck off.  You want to know my routine?  It involves going to work.  You know, that mysterious place your husband goes to while you're sitting around in yoga pants ordering crap off the Internet?  Who would produce this commercial and not think for a minute "Hey, this might fill people with blinding rage."  It's not like this is what this woman does on a Sunday.  No, it's EVERYDAY.  It's her ROUTINE.  Monday was full of "must haves" and Tuesday was about "changing up his look."  God your husband must hate you.  "I know that my day hasn't really started until I've gone to HauteLook."  YES, THAT'S CALLED A SHOPPING ADDICTION.  You're filling your house up with stuff in order to fill some void in your life.  You know it, I know it, the UPS guy knows it.  And what exactly do you do with the rest of your day, once you've exhausted HauteLook?  Volunteer at the nursing home wiping old people's butts?  Or head on over to Amazon?  I thought so.

Then there was this cute little Pandora ad:

"You love that he loves you.  Now love what he gives you." 

Can't wait to see what he gives you when he figures out a Pandora bracelet, plus fourteen charms, will run him close to $800. 

Tuesday, January 28, 2014


My 4 year old, Max, is taking a basketball class at the YMCA.  It's supposed to be for three and four year old kids, but there's this one kid who is basically this guy:

Maybe, maybe, he's almost five….it's possible.  It's also possible that he can get into R rated movies.

Anyway, the class is held every Saturday morning for about a million weeks - seriously, I don't think this class ever ends - and is a nice activity to give Max a break from the Netflix film festival that our lives have become.  It's hard to get dressed and out of the house so early though, what with the cold weather, and the snow, and the fact that Amazon now streams Team Umizoomi.  

But it is always worth it, as there are a few interesting parents in attendance.  Luckily these are pre-schoolers, so we don't yet have the red-faced, thick-necked dads screaming things like LET'S GET SOME HUSTLE!! and CAN'T WE GET SOME DEFENSE?!? (these are all things people scream at sporting events, right?).  We do however have these guys:

1)  The lady who is out there doing literally everything with her kid.  Like, everything.  Time to do drills?  She's out there galloping sideways down the court.  Time to shoot the basketball into a hoop that's like three feet off the ground?  She shoots, she scores!  Time to hop like a frog?  There's a sight I will never be able to erase from my brain.  Although, last week she stayed on the sidelines and her kid spent the entire class running back and forth across the court wearing a superhero cape. So maybe she knew what she was doing.

2)  The dad who shows up in head to toe Addidas athletic gear, and then sits there on his iPad.  What are you doing?  I mean, you looked like you were either going to assist the coaches against their will, or you were going to leave and go workout.  But you're doing neither of those things.  You're sitting in a chair playing Rayman Fiesta Run and not even looking at your kid.  You could have at least worn jeans.

Then you get the older kids that come in and are just waiting around for the class to end so they can use the court.  They start dribbling and doing all this other basketbally type shit on the sidelines, and then one of their red-faced, thick-necked dads comes along and starts clapping and saying things like LET'S GET THAT DEFENSIVE STANCE GOING.  Or whatever.  He doesn't actually say it in all caps, but that's how I hear it because I AM TRYING TO WATCH A CLASS OF 4 YEAR OLD CHILDREN. Would it kill you to just wait quietly out in the hall?  The world will not end if you have to stop dribbling for fifteen freakin minutes.  Here, I'll give you a book to read.

After class, we stop in this play area that looks like a giant tree with a slide built into it, and kids randomly drop their socks on my head while I send text messages to my husband who, for some reason, got to go wait for us in the car.

In conclusion, I'm glad that we are getting out of the house and that Max is getting some exercise.  And once it's over, we get to watch four straight hours of Team Umizoomi with a totally clear conscience.


Friday, January 24, 2014

"The first step to becoming a writer is to admit that you have no idea what you're doing and that all of your ideas are shit.  The second step, after completing the first step, is to go on the Internet." - Beth Labonte, Writer