tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16067016466453345312024-02-07T15:37:49.492-05:00You Are Kidding Me!Because everyday, I'm convinced, there's some huge practical joke being played on me. Oh, wait, it's just life.youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.comBlogger283125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-20991131135279807212022-08-16T11:52:00.000-04:002022-08-16T11:52:18.648-04:00Quality Time at the DMV?<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyMOcSExT6gEvfwpcEZyCf3kswOCxvMvyLWaWJ9eQCIajaDZsG4AWIVmJJsjdAoSiXdtiwxtdvgR7PAZ3G46fnoPKLcEEho2tfZ_nBp8GmZcf0o24CSUNFvYk-7ES2NEKPsgDwzQJAOWG3GiVreD8ZK7DIQxFKxOAgLVMy9y0Ptbso4ap6bKWvrca/s3648/20220802_141534.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyMOcSExT6gEvfwpcEZyCf3kswOCxvMvyLWaWJ9eQCIajaDZsG4AWIVmJJsjdAoSiXdtiwxtdvgR7PAZ3G46fnoPKLcEEho2tfZ_nBp8GmZcf0o24CSUNFvYk-7ES2NEKPsgDwzQJAOWG3GiVreD8ZK7DIQxFKxOAgLVMy9y0Ptbso4ap6bKWvrca/s320/20220802_141534.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The paparazzi at the DMV were quite annoying.</div><br />Parent of a teenager tip: <br />Want some quality time with your almost-adult kid? Plan a day at the DMV! <br /><br />The Division of Motor Vehicles is a surefire way to ensure hours together with nothing else to do but talk to one another and bond. Just be sure to act totally understanding of your teen’s annoyance at the fact that he might need to spend hours on his summer break getting a mistake corrected that the good folks at the DMV made! Don’t let on to the fact that this day is as exciting to you as when he was 4 years-old and you spent the whole day at the local waterpark and you were the center of his universe (insert bawling here).<br /><br />When we realized several months ago that the ever-competent DMV had spelled my son’s name wrong on his driver’s license, I put off going to get it corrected until the summer. We had much more time to waste a few hours of our lives during our summer break rather than roll our butts out of bed on a Saturday during the school year.<br /><br />So the dreaded task took place yesterday. Neither of us were particularly excited for this excursion. But then the thought occurred to me. This is uninterrupted time with my boy! Just him and me and 100 disgruntled strangers.<br /><br />As the many stages of waiting occurred, I feigned annoyance at the complete inconvenience of this all as I took every opportunity to make this a mommy and me outing. <br /><br /><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">Arrival: Wait outside building for security to let us in. Chat about his morning at work, the next show to binge watch…(mom’s heart smiles!)<br /><br />Check in desk: Get name change paper, go wait on another line. Those smartypants know what they’re doing though! That was the second half of the line - they SPLIT the line! We were about 10 people back from the “front” of the line, but the rest of the line was in another area to which we’d be herded off to when we got to the front of the fake line. While waiting, we start a friendly competition of what time we will leave the DMV. <br /><br />Son adds: “I hate the DMV.”<br />Mom: “Welcome to adulthood. Wait til tax season.”<br /><br />Conversation starts about saving for a car, what kind of car he would like, senior parking privileges…(mom’s heart is happy!)<br /><br />Document check: Just when we think we’ve reached Oz, when the real line acknowledged us as the next victim, my son’s documents get checked, but it’s not over, folks. We are told to once again…wait. Have a seat until our number is called. This number was professionally scrawled on a ripped post-it note by a guy who talked about the deliciousness of pineapple on pepperoni pizza.<br /><br />Son: “That guy needs to stop talking, he’s holding up the line.”<br />Mom: “Agreed. Plus it sounds disgusting.”<br /><br />Conversation starts about the positives and negatives of pineapple and pepperoni pizza, the amazing buffalo chicken pizza that he wants for dinner… (mom’s heart is singing…)<br /><br />Corral of seats: Watch and listen as numbers are called haphazardly, in no particular sensical order just to completely screw with us victims. <br /><br />That’s fine, DMV. This just gives me MORE time with my baby! We watch videos on my phone of two brothers who do all kinds of fun tricks and we talk about recreating some of these at home, scroll through old pictures on phone, remember vacations, Kindergarten, baseball games....<br /><br />To Be Continued…Oh yes, trust me, the saga continues. It is the DMV, afterall.</p>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-7989703930692305582022-07-27T14:54:00.002-04:002022-07-27T15:06:36.443-04:00Dirty Little Secret<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCmJqXRNJzyH8l-Jq5_cYb0AULouevSOrhQiiCJCJNot1g-1hehftCfGiymcGvzBQwbE4C76JSeBnrezFeoUYKPzOfFD8YdkMKIy8dM4GawAKb0dMqkWExHcKpN6tc-vWVOBlyEqT8uURupfXC1CpllCLHP0pFwm6QPiLyIkRQNrDEwuj6BAAsEYc/s1551/Screenshot_20220727-145119_Instagram.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1551" data-original-width="913" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCmJqXRNJzyH8l-Jq5_cYb0AULouevSOrhQiiCJCJNot1g-1hehftCfGiymcGvzBQwbE4C76JSeBnrezFeoUYKPzOfFD8YdkMKIy8dM4GawAKb0dMqkWExHcKpN6tc-vWVOBlyEqT8uURupfXC1CpllCLHP0pFwm6QPiLyIkRQNrDEwuj6BAAsEYc/s320/Screenshot_20220727-145119_Instagram.jpg" width="188" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I put my sneakers on this morning in the usual spot, the tiled front entry. After I put them on, I realized that I didn’t have my keys so I started walking to grab them. I am a staunch believer in no shoes on in the house, but since I’m the one that cleans, I allow myself to break my own rule. However, I noticed all kinds of dirt on the creamy blush tile so I stopped dead in my tracks before trekking through 2 rooms to get my keys. I was enraged! "WHO dragged all this dirt into the house?" I wailed.<div><br /></div><div>I inspected more carefully, then ever so sweetly asked my dear 17 year-old to please get my keys from the kitchen because somehow there was dirt on <i>my</i> shoes. When he came back with the keys, I realized where the dirt had come from and I announced, “Oh! It's from the mulch - I forgot I was watering the plants earlier.”<br /><br />And without missing a beat, he sarcastically announced MY famous line, “I JUST cleaned the floors!”<br /><br />Well done, son. Well done. </div>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-64373457582414017762022-04-12T20:14:00.002-04:002022-04-12T20:22:06.751-04:00Midlife Bridal Shower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHG3HhLQBvnGMUuR17Obcsikbn5JXYgnnqbSbL_aTNosPysgJ4UM8Z_TB500ASvSMByvkYK_WUZvPuirB1a7EDnZEnlcO5SAdkIuo8_HzlETTFbGbHVU3O-9-isBTS81s3OaL_n7FHmOndY2EXCAfCYwwSncRcCA-CVuvIQemI_qF0BNd0r-IGYwZ/s1750/20220412_195939.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1750" data-original-width="1321" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHG3HhLQBvnGMUuR17Obcsikbn5JXYgnnqbSbL_aTNosPysgJ4UM8Z_TB500ASvSMByvkYK_WUZvPuirB1a7EDnZEnlcO5SAdkIuo8_HzlETTFbGbHVU3O-9-isBTS81s3OaL_n7FHmOndY2EXCAfCYwwSncRcCA-CVuvIQemI_qF0BNd0r-IGYwZ/s320/20220412_195939.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-9688143b-7fff-15e7-5a1a-a8c4a1d4d3e2"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My bridal shower was almost 23 years ago. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This means 2 things: </span></p><ol style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have been with my husband longer than I was alive not knowing him.</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am in serious need of more spoons. And a toaster oven.</span></p></li></ol><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ll never forget the comments from my aunts while I opened my ultra-absorbant dish towels, salad spinner and monogrammed water pitcher. First, the complete envy for dish towels was downright shocking. Their side conversations of wanting their own married-after-20 years- showers was bizarre. Aunt Mary said she could really use new towels while Aunt Karen agreed and added a new vacuum to the list of household desires. While friends added bows to my paper hat bonnet, I seriously pondered why on earth Aunt Mary and Aunt Karen didn’t just go to Bed Bath & Beyond and get themselves some new towels.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fast forward nearly 23 years later and I am a wiser woman.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are 2 reasons why Aunt Mary and Aunt Karen weren’t treating themselves to shiny new spatulas:</span></p><ol style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A mortgage</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kids</span></p></li></ol><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, I’ll add a third reason - no online shopping in 1999.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When there is a monthly bill to keep a roof over one’s head, washing and rewashing the same three spoons because the other 13 in the set have mysteriously disappeared becomes normal. Paying for our kids’ survival outweighs the want for bath towels that actually dry a human body. And let’s face it, having to physically go to the store in the pre-online shopping era was just simply barbaric. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I say we throw ourselves our own Midlife Showers! Celebrate being married, surviving hot flashes, dealing with teenage hormones - hell, our own hormones! What’s on your registry? Keep an eye out for my list which may or may not include a gift card to help with the car insurance for my newly-licensed son. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Special note: In memory of my Aunt Mary who passed away 11 years ago and in honor of my Aunt Karen. These wonderful women are my mom’s sisters and were both a very special part of my childhood and growing up. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Additional special note: Actual bridal shower photo,June 1999. Who else wants the top-button cardigan over the dress to come back??</span></div></span>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-8038837903690058322022-04-03T12:11:00.018-04:002022-04-03T12:27:29.545-04:00This is Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-sTpUi7gWJpjJQrt__5cbbWfeiITu5jtVLSJNcKVN0A4KVNb25ZQv2Vv3d_vYZ9vJltyr3KdnoHB1V6XuoE3I1IYkOWna4O4oRENXr83LTf0s4MNLryLpNtw7eeygK6yLkzsPYBcENTN-WdxvV4CttfEt-_hzmCc5BoXo_DTytGc9pX6ji4fJYj6/s975/Screenshot_20220403-120734_Instagram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="975" data-original-width="823" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-sTpUi7gWJpjJQrt__5cbbWfeiITu5jtVLSJNcKVN0A4KVNb25ZQv2Vv3d_vYZ9vJltyr3KdnoHB1V6XuoE3I1IYkOWna4O4oRENXr83LTf0s4MNLryLpNtw7eeygK6yLkzsPYBcENTN-WdxvV4CttfEt-_hzmCc5BoXo_DTytGc9pX6ji4fJYj6/s320/Screenshot_20220403-120734_Instagram.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>My brain has been driving in 50 different directions lately. Of course, this
isn’t unusual for a mom, a full-time working mom, wife, daughter, dog mom,
anxiety-filled 40-something year old with a mortgage, a kid with a new license
going to college in 16 months (oh my God, oh my God). <div><br /></div><div>About a month ago, I
thought I’d try my hand at affiliate marketing. I wanted to weave my love of
writing with marketing stuff that I currently own and direct my followers to
some website to buy the things I love, and in turn, maybe make a few bucks.
Turns out, I’m just not that person. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I love those people. I follow those
people and they direct me to buy all kinds of things I love and don’t need. But
when I really started to think about it, it’s just not me. I will not model in
front of a mirror trying to convince the masses that a dress looks cute while
popping a knee for the perfect shot. What I will do is make funny faces when I
know someone is taking a picture. THAT'S me. </div><div><br /></div><div>You know what else I will do? I
will use all my snark and 40-something wisdom to write about topics that are
important to us. By us, I mean moms in the middle. We’re preparing our kids to
leave the nest while caring for aging parents; scoffing at Mom Jeans because we
did it the first time but have no idea what jeans to actually wear; perfectly
content to go to bed at 10 on a Saturday night but forced to stay up until our
teenager arrives safely home. </div><div><br /></div><div>Please join me on this wild ride, comment and share your ups,
downs and in-betweens of this stage of life.
</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYfnSFoI8rGnts7RjFEXH3JqRzkkztH_AHZfWV72pDC-p3j178fIcN6Oq4dgp0hWxHkIzKGopHapWDsbXAisGmbFNq7xW6gmYi52dMz5NBxneMznWnStsbNCSbKy0ij5Kk--A3f53x2Dy31as_b9R5Iz-DJqcB3kAjmZn-5_EamGkF0JWhqoUgb-_/s752/Screenshot_20220403-120815_Instagram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="559" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYfnSFoI8rGnts7RjFEXH3JqRzkkztH_AHZfWV72pDC-p3j178fIcN6Oq4dgp0hWxHkIzKGopHapWDsbXAisGmbFNq7xW6gmYi52dMz5NBxneMznWnStsbNCSbKy0ij5Kk--A3f53x2Dy31as_b9R5Iz-DJqcB3kAjmZn-5_EamGkF0JWhqoUgb-_/s320/Screenshot_20220403-120815_Instagram.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-11353397720479107072022-01-29T15:43:00.000-05:002022-01-29T15:43:17.677-05:00February and David Goggins<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0dMBpUVsVv601t0GgtuE2jJo_rUCU0Nhfn6i_6_jpVbCDgVKUwsX83byBIdjegUKIiWh6sFf-gabe8Zlo36DTlNvm5dLLc-VqIvcoD1TqCTIZnlk5ACXwsfH5AO5QBVFGj7CqSaKaLGV5QLLIFkc4fla8xfsnYOprt6aeUrXHVXwRkfdMVB508JLt=s1542" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1542" data-original-width="1080" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0dMBpUVsVv601t0GgtuE2jJo_rUCU0Nhfn6i_6_jpVbCDgVKUwsX83byBIdjegUKIiWh6sFf-gabe8Zlo36DTlNvm5dLLc-VqIvcoD1TqCTIZnlk5ACXwsfH5AO5QBVFGj7CqSaKaLGV5QLLIFkc4fla8xfsnYOprt6aeUrXHVXwRkfdMVB508JLt=w156-h222" width="156" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">Run #1 of the 4x4x48 Challenge, March 5, 2021</div></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">February sucks. It is the shortest month, but the longest. It is a vast nothingness of nothing. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-12325fed-7fff-880b-4055-c14c699b8624"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last February I trained for <a href="https://davidgoggins.com/">David Goggins</a>’ 4x4x48: I prepared to run 4 miles every 4 hours for 48 hours in March. (If you’ve never heard of Goggins, look him up - you’ll immediately be both inspired and horrified). I did shorter runs during the week then multiple runs on the weekends to get ready. It helped me to have a goal to work towards and made the month go by with something to look forward to, if running 4 miles, every 4 hours for 48 hours and sleep deprivation is something one looks forward to.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So this year I needed a challenge to push me through this dreadful month. At first I thought, in keeping with the “get uncomfortable” spirit a la David Goggins, I will get up every morning at 5:45 to do</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> something</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - walk, stretch, workout, meditate. I hate mornings and I especially hate dark, cold winter mornings, so that’s the uncomfortable part. Then I laughed maniacally at the thought of me getting up 45 minutes before I actually needed to. That’s a little </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">too </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">uncomfortable. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This thought process brought me to my answer, 2022’s F**k February Goal. Too often (like, too too often, like every night) I am just too tired, too mentally drained from herding cats all day (I’m a teacher). Although I almost always get in my workout, I can then sit in front of the television for hours so that not one more brain cell needs to function. My goal: I will not watch television on weekday nights so that I can write, workout and meditate. Instead of making excuses that I don’t have the time because it’s being eaten away by </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Real Housewives</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cheer</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I will spend my weekday evenings productively not being attached to my couch. I am not giving up weekends because a girl’s gotta live…and catch up on what she’s missed all week.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve been wanting to bring this blog back to life so here’s to 2022’s F**k February Goal. Check in, keep me accountable and let me know what gets you through your "February!"</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigVZCcjOvRrxH3A0pCzTMoiSyKDUXxRF7saZuDUmaORb-YyM9-UR2DrI0ayLvm6ndGnaYC25geY4nFC4zR3CXlI-xkRIWUu2iVHv3cKUADADJUbi53SQUkBzdL_hi9xEAqp4u6ByfIgrKJ4kJJneJGWiKuuyz4i2FFTMAMUKXx9_44J45o0FWvxbs3=s1276" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1276" data-original-width="1078" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigVZCcjOvRrxH3A0pCzTMoiSyKDUXxRF7saZuDUmaORb-YyM9-UR2DrI0ayLvm6ndGnaYC25geY4nFC4zR3CXlI-xkRIWUu2iVHv3cKUADADJUbi53SQUkBzdL_hi9xEAqp4u6ByfIgrKJ4kJJneJGWiKuuyz4i2FFTMAMUKXx9_44J45o0FWvxbs3=w231-h274" width="231" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-31545810045858678042022-01-09T20:42:00.003-05:002022-01-09T20:43:18.687-05:00Isn't It Ironic?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBgdS8-OPeQAHpIJMTEbcyUm5sD35EOlP2VWVUNJwH5P_qobRG8jZwKDP8UzZKaeSJ2NHK8Tl85_jikLmqJcBzMZ0LPWYorAaXEJZ6qibI48ddvul89PSei6K0vAB-d363OUzy3wX2HW0JYjut5h0G0BfK-nprcJdbQe3n7xUxYyZgs9ypu_rdKgN9=s687" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="687" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBgdS8-OPeQAHpIJMTEbcyUm5sD35EOlP2VWVUNJwH5P_qobRG8jZwKDP8UzZKaeSJ2NHK8Tl85_jikLmqJcBzMZ0LPWYorAaXEJZ6qibI48ddvul89PSei6K0vAB-d363OUzy3wX2HW0JYjut5h0G0BfK-nprcJdbQe3n7xUxYyZgs9ypu_rdKgN9=w214-h188" width="214" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday, as I rested my arms</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> between sets of triceps and shoulders during my weight training, I found myself Googling the hours of our the local ice cream shop for date night.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><br /></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-26363056503594065912022-01-01T19:26:00.001-05:002022-01-01T19:36:38.827-05:00Hanging in There<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGArLK_50c6mZkW6gK6E-366EJ3awcZ8TMcYzb9d8Uv2PbV_lhitTzPj9GqMoiOe-SswyY_R1DnjCHKsf8qDMI22t1FcwL7O_oFsMLmJqXDn6tq87etE9W8-Fy527_wIR5wqlLHp8qF7C7Z8djE7Lg4Ox0A4QEESMOZKJB1ok-AeFMFj0PHsHN5w28=s1396" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1396" data-original-width="971" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGArLK_50c6mZkW6gK6E-366EJ3awcZ8TMcYzb9d8Uv2PbV_lhitTzPj9GqMoiOe-SswyY_R1DnjCHKsf8qDMI22t1FcwL7O_oFsMLmJqXDn6tq87etE9W8-Fy527_wIR5wqlLHp8qF7C7Z8djE7Lg4Ox0A4QEESMOZKJB1ok-AeFMFj0PHsHN5w28=s320" width="223" /></a></div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Completely forgetting that my equilibrium gets thrown off by going on a playground swing did not deter my 40-something old self from signing up for an <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6pBMjNJTf8">aerial silk class</a>. </span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-8a5c5da7-7fff-3303-3ac5-9628c8288bd3"><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twice.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Honestly, when I thought this was a good idea, I forgot that I have an equilibrium issue. Because I’m 40 something and if I didn’t write that nugget on a Post-it, it’s lost and gone forever.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I came across this studio near me that describes itself as “circus, aerials, pole, lyra, silks, burlesque” so basically, it screamed to my middle-aged self that this establishment was clearly something I had to look into. I decided on the aerial silks class because why wouldn’t I want to hang from the ceiling of a warehouse flipping my “don’t have the flexibility of a twenty something any more” body through brightly colored fabric? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Did I mention that I’m also scared to death of heights?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hope that by now you checked out the link above to see this amazing art. It is beautiful and powerful. The ways in which bodies become gracefully entangled in these vibrant silks is magical.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And<a href="https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=aerial+silk+failure"> looks nothing </a>like I did my first time. And definitely not my second. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I signed up for the beginner’s class for obvious reasons. The first class lived up to its name. The instructor taught us beginners slowly and methodically how to flip ourselves through the fabric in order to get that beautiful silk wedged right up the lady parts or to squeeze our thighs like a tourniquet. I actually did everything and had fun, but as the minutes ticked on, I felt the nausea come on followed by body parts beginning to bruise. By the time I got home, I had a headache, was sick to my stomach, and couldn’t walk up the stairs because of that damn material squeezing at the back of my knees as we playfully hung upside down like a bunch of monkeys.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Naturally, I went back a week later. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This time, the beginner’s class catered more to the advanced students. Why were there advanced students in this class? Great question with absolutely no answer. I spent most of this class standing my with mask-covered mouth open in awe of my classmates’ talents. This instructor had us attempting to climb up our silk like a rope in middle school gym class, turn horizontal, then flip ourselves a few times up our silk. Having a hard time picturing this? Understandable. The doing was way worse. Then we were to FALL out of this contraption in which we put ourselves. Even though I didn’t participate as fully as I did the first time, it was still enough that I was nauseous again, went home with a headache again, and felt the beginnings of more bruises - again. It was extremely difficult, I was extremely frustrated but this class taught me an important lesson. I’m a quitter.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What’s that saying - fool me once…Well, I’m over aerial silks. But I bought a 4-class pass and still need to use 2 more classes. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"> </p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I’ll keep you posted on how burlesque goes. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqzwhs0kQFAJe3fHpSA1XX7fHy-dW67GPFjbTX9VO8lu73Nc_JccZYbVsyfZNcSG6I_5poiqw83pgRw1HW7lgb4pUfORLVQmfnrUUFzEcfn4R2pDyBRzuNpBBB9mAG1Lx46pEIQ8xg0na8YyTQlBSRW32zV18Di0hOhvfqkkBdwD5ZkPi2SqBeEEcc=s886" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="871" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqzwhs0kQFAJe3fHpSA1XX7fHy-dW67GPFjbTX9VO8lu73Nc_JccZYbVsyfZNcSG6I_5poiqw83pgRw1HW7lgb4pUfORLVQmfnrUUFzEcfn4R2pDyBRzuNpBBB9mAG1Lx46pEIQ8xg0na8YyTQlBSRW32zV18Di0hOhvfqkkBdwD5ZkPi2SqBeEEcc=s320" width="315" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-42901046572773917252021-12-28T15:39:00.002-05:002021-12-28T16:01:10.236-05:00Midlife Musings<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvXR1jJpOaY9NUR6KoXQW7yBRtaKz4JCQAhDsq7Rwtc1hCLwOa-sJPdykbl5N0HNI1NS2W-f8L1j3qho1CFEV1IR5xGtd1bGBci1XdTKXLF4FOJpfhsUWnB2ZFQdyV3Oo31eZkVjrMmi5i-jOnw5DNn1_CgY6k-QQmCbakvmTn0y2YiotvleV6moYn=s906" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="889" data-original-width="906" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvXR1jJpOaY9NUR6KoXQW7yBRtaKz4JCQAhDsq7Rwtc1hCLwOa-sJPdykbl5N0HNI1NS2W-f8L1j3qho1CFEV1IR5xGtd1bGBci1XdTKXLF4FOJpfhsUWnB2ZFQdyV3Oo31eZkVjrMmi5i-jOnw5DNn1_CgY6k-QQmCbakvmTn0y2YiotvleV6moYn=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I started this blog about 13 years ago, I had a preschooler. A three-year old boy who wielded a light saber, believed in Santa, and resisted naps like it was his job. Our days were filled with park visits, playdates, reading books and singing silly songs. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fast forward, and here I am with an almost 17 year-old young MAN (and a yellow lab that behaves like a preschooler). Hubby and I are on the cusp of an empty nest. The Legos have long since been put away and have been replaced with mailers from colleges near and far. Gone are the days of getting a babysitter so that hubby and I could go out to dinner and get a little break. Now, we beg Monkey Man to go out to dinner WITH us. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">While Monkey Man continues growing inches over me, I watch as my midsection tries to creep inches over my waistband. Monkey Man is barreling on towards adulthood and all of the exciting adventures that await him, and I’m here in the throes of midlife, perimenopause, who the hell is that reflection in the mirror “adventures” - if that’s what we want to call sweating through our t-shirts in the middle of the night. I no longer need to get up every few hours to feed a child. No, no - instead, I get up every few hours to pee.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">This blog’s title is still aptly named, though. You are kidding me continues to be a phrase I use daily, only now I might add in a few expletives since Monkey Man is older and we can laugh at mom’s potty mouth. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Caught in the middle - We’re raising children and caring for parents; seasoned in our careers but not quite ready for retirement (mentally, oh yessss - financially, not quite yet), done with the clubs and bars but not quite ready for weekly bingo and dinner at 4pm.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Come along with me on this wild ride of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">midlife. Because m</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">isery - and menopause - love company. </span></p>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-63328343206511809262019-06-27T11:31:00.003-04:002019-06-27T13:38:54.901-04:00The Human Vacuum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGkGxSFi8-9OfEjVfiNocSoDQz_PnsuXsMmjIGniRritO9KfzXFBWXFalm2a9JfdXOk309h_amv-uhD4cKemNzTgrID-o6-FoDQ_UnIp4r5ygJbErB0Ap5vzohQmzdBrFxoGy7fePFe0s/s1600/pantry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1347" data-original-width="1600" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGkGxSFi8-9OfEjVfiNocSoDQz_PnsuXsMmjIGniRritO9KfzXFBWXFalm2a9JfdXOk309h_amv-uhD4cKemNzTgrID-o6-FoDQ_UnIp4r5ygJbErB0Ap5vzohQmzdBrFxoGy7fePFe0s/s320/pantry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My refrigerator sits, a cold, barren wasteland, like the tundra of Alaska. Well, if the Alaskan tundra had empty food storage containers strewn about. I open the pantry and to my horror, I fear that thieves broke in during the night and ransacked the snacks, leaving behind empty granola bar boxes, bags that hold individual servings of chips and popcorn, and a few stray Cheerios at the bottom of the box. <br />
<br />
My heart begins to race. I just went grocery shopping yesterday! How can this be? All that food - and money - gone! In less than 24 hours, I am back to square one. Back to my refrigerator looking like that of a college frat house with a bottle of ketchup, one lonely yogurt cup and something mysterious wrapped in foil. <br />
<br />
I’m startled out of my panic when I hear a familiar voice chime in from behind me heading ever closer to the crime scene. <br />
<br />
“Mommmm, there’s nothing to eeeaaat!” the voice moans as if the person who owns the voice hadn’t eaten in days. <br />
<br />
And then it hits me. We have not been robbed by a gang of ravenous bandits. This was an inside job orchestrated and executed by my dear, sweet, bottomless pit of a 14-year old son. <br />
<br />
I answer to his cries of starvation, “There’s plenty of watermelon, I just cut it up!” <br />
<br />
“Nope. I ate it,” human vacuum says with a grin. <br />
<br />
Grrrrr..."That’s the empty watermelon container? Could you please not put empty containers back in the fridge?” I beg, tears welling in my eyes as I remember the days when I could go to the grocery store but once a week.<br />
<br />
I continue with my usual rebuttals. “Chocolate pudding? Popcorn? Yogurt? Strawberries? Cereal?” <br />
<br />
“Ummm, nope. All gone. The granola bars are done,too. I left the empty box in the cabinet so you would know. Just wanna help you, mom!” he says while putting his arm around me and giving me a loving, and I detect, sarcastic squeeze. <br />
<br />
“You know what else is all gone, too? My money. So get creative, kid, and enjoy that ketchup, cup of yogurt and mystery item wrapped in foil until payday!”<br />
<br />
<br />youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-8750769414484694922019-02-24T14:53:00.000-05:002019-02-24T14:57:16.290-05:00The Stomach Bug (as told by the classroom floor and trash can) Floor: All day long, every day, I get walked on. Kicked. Dirt and goose poop get ground into my 1960s pores. <br />
<br />
Trash can: We do have it pretty bad, don’t we? I mean, the teacher thinks she has it the worst? You see her crying when the kids are at art, grading that stack of papers while she stress eats 3 packs of Oreos from the vending machine. Pfft. She's got it easy!<br />
<br />
Floor: Yeah, and mumbling something about having to go pee but she also has to make 25 copies of 10 packets and the stapler in the machine wasn't working which meant she'd have to hand staple all those copies and she only had 20 minutes left. Did she ever go pee?<br />
<br />
Oh sorry, I digress. Please, enlighten me. How do you have it worse than me? <br />
<br />
Trash can: Those kids throw booger-covered tissues and bloodied bandages in me from the 3-point line in the classroom!<br />
<br />
Floor: Ahem. And when they miss, which they almost always do, they land on ME. So, you were saying? <br />
<br />
Trash can: Paper towels that wipe down the filth of 25 eight-year-olds are nonchalantly tossed in me whenever the teacher has a minute to wipe down the desks in this place. And let’s not forget how I accompany the kids down the hall all winter long. <br />
<br />
Floor: Ohhh right. The winter. (shudders) <br />
<br />
Trash Can: Exactly! That walk of shame that I have to do, being held by some kid that is about to spew his Pop-Tart and chocolate milk breakfast of champions all over me! <br />
<br />
Floor: Whoooa, hold on there, big guy. I have no warning! Zero! They just up and chuck all over me! At least you know that once they scoop you up and take you for a stroll, there is a very good likelihood that you will be the recipient of blown chunks. Me? One minute I’m relaxing while the kids are finally in their seats and I have a moment to myself and the next minute… <br />
<br />
Trash Can: Ok, yeah. You win. <br />
<br />youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-14116236077444678352019-02-20T11:54:00.001-05:002019-02-20T13:22:09.134-05:00One Out of 12 Ain't Bad<br />
“Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes<br />
How do you measure, measure a year?”<br />
<br />
Well, <i>Rent</i>, glad you asked! <br />
<br />
Since February just happens to be the worst month ever, let’s start out with that one. It is the saddest, darkest and strangely enough, shortest month. Twenty-eight days that seem to stretch on for years with its cold, black mornings of nothingness. We made it through the hectic holidays of December, a month that can be holly, jolly and fun for many but at the price of credit card debt, dysfunctional family get togethers, and misinterpreted “Happy Holidays!” and “Grrr, he didn’t say MERRY CHRISTMAS! Even though he was so pleasant and smiled. Why isn’t everyone participating in our beliefs?” We persevered through January, a month that starts off with resolutions of health and happiness and ends six weeks later in empty gyms and winter blues. <br />
<br />
So, back to February. We muddle through, making Valentine’s Day into a holiday just to give ourselves some joy and chocolate in this bleak wasteland of winter. We even take off a Monday to stretch out a long weekend hoping Abe and George will give us a glimmer of hope in this most wretched month. Finally, the 28th comes, or in the godforsaken Leap Year, the 29th, and we gleefully rip February from our desk calendars in anticipation of March. March! Spring! Flowers and green, and sunshine! <br />
<br />
Not so fast. Oh, March, you little lying weasel. You sneer at us like an evil villain pretending to bring hope because you carry the first day of spring in your pocket. You lure us to your windowless white van with your promises of candy and puppy dogs. But nope. Instead, you spit wreckless winds for 31 days, allowing April’s showers to show up like an unwanted in-law 30 days early. And then you have the gall to continue the temperatures of your ugly predecessor, February.<br />
<br />
Then April comes hoppin’ down the bunny trail. Its pastel woven basket holds hopes of jellybeans and baby chicks and tulips and SPRING! The real SPRING! Hold on there, my marshmallow peeps. Sure, we are about two weeks into spring, but we all know how those May flowers are going to bloom. Yep. April showers. Downpours. N’oreasters. Heck, we might even get a good snowstorm this month. So, April? Your only redeeming quality is that you are one month closer to summer. <br />
<br />
As we round out April, we head into the lovely sunshiney May. May you be happy now! May you find the joy that was sucked from you for the past 7 months! May you find a reason to get out of bed when the sunrise actually occurs before you open your eyes in the morning. Thank you, May for having 31 days. We relish every single one of them.<br />
<br />
June, we’re not really sure what to think about you. You have such potential to be a great month, but sadly, you keep our children imprisoned in their schools until almost your last week! As if that’s not bad enough for the lil ones who just want out, think of the teachers trying to enrich their brains for those last three weeks! You bring such promise of summer and outside play and the anticipation of a long awaited break. But really, you’re just cruel. <br />
<br />
July. July...what can I say? You are a close runner-up to May with your summer vacations, parades and fireworks, late nights with friends laughing and enjoying the laid back summa’ time living reminiscent of 80s Country Time Lemonade commercials. Sure, you bring on 100% humidity and bad hair days, but I’ll gladly wipe my brow with my hanky throughout the day for the sweet freedom you bring. <br />
<br />
As we roll into August, some might still be enjoying a carefree summer break, but for anyone heading back to school soon, it’s a bittersweet month. Sometimes described as one long Sunday night, we know that September is hiding around the corner armed with freshly sharpened Ticonderoga pencils, crisp white notebook paper and a rainbow of new crayons, ready to jump out at any minute and scare the bejeezus out of us. It’s not only the back to school thing that is disappointing. It’s the mere threat that...winter is coming. Yep, in the wise words of <i>Game of Thrones</i>, it is. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or next month. But if you absolutely loathe temperatures below 65, August brings thoughts of fall which inevitably brings winter. And we all know how that goes. If you forgot, start at the top of this post. <br />
<br />
Aside: We’re just skipping over September, October and November. Nothing notable here. Unless you’re into shipping the kids back to school so you can get back to lunching with friends, bulky sweaters and pumpkin everything, then have at it and celebrate! <br />
<br />
So thank you, May, for being the one redeemable month in a dozen that could take a lesson or two from you and improve their games. <br />
<br />
Let's hear from you! What's your favorite month and why? Or least favorite month? We like Positive Pollys and Pessimistic Pollys! All Pollys welcome!youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-42740301810551180742015-03-01T16:23:00.000-05:002015-03-01T16:28:43.515-05:00Snow Daze<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">With the impending blizzards, ice storms, and other Disney-created winter
shenanigans (yes, I’m blaming Disney. They have their hands in everything! Friggin’ Elsa.), the Northeast continues to clamor
to the grocery stores every five days to get their pick of French toast
ingredients. Facebook becomes aflutter with photos of empty bread shelves and
dairy cases. Those that are SOL on just
one more gallon of milk can be found sulking over dry Cheerios on Snow Day
morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I, however, put a
little forethought into these world-ending meteorological events and have
assembled my own “Oh my God, we are going to be stuck in the house for ONE
WHOLE DAY” survival package. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the Snow Day Survival Kit: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Wine, ¾ of a bottle. Unlike what seems to be almost every
other sloshed mom in the world, I only have alcohol in the house if we just had
guests over or went to a BYOB restaurant. Well, lucky for me, hubby and I went
out to dinner over the weekend and I have some liquid leftovers. I think there is
a random Blue Moon in the garage somewhere by the wrenches, too. Such a feeling
of freedom, of “it’s not a Saturday night, but it totally FEELS like a Saturday
night, and I’m going to have a crazy glass of wine or beer from the bowels of
the tool kit!” Because no one drinks wine any other night of the week.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />However, I can’t help to wonder - Why does having a Snow Day make one
feel like one should drink? Why isn’t this any different from a typical day
off? Maybe others were drinking all snow day long, but would these same people
drink all day Saturday or Sunday? I do not take a single sip on my actual snow day
off, as I have things to accomplish, like napping and standing outside in 25
degree weather while watching my child sled up and down a hill 2 times then just
play in the snow with his friend. He could have played in the snow with his
friend in my backyard. While I was INSIDE under a blanket. Not freezing.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Science experiments. My son received this kit for his
birthday almost a year ago. I excitedly pulled it out of the playroom to add to
my kit with high hopes of bonding over conducting experiments with recyclables.
Now, I teach math and science. Everyday. To children that are the same age as
my son. I could easily do without one more science experiment, but what else
would he do? Play on his Xbox all day talking to his friends through his
headset? This was my very blatant attempt at stealing my child away from the
evil Box of X. See above photo for science experiment results. Make note of how well this went over. </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Cookies…Homemade, no less! By some Act of God, God being Martha
Stewart, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I had every single ingredient
in the house needed to make homemade chocolate chip cookies. This in itself is
more earth-shattering news than the forthcoming blizzards considering when I
attempt to make dinner, I am always without one key ingredient. I could not let
these ingredients sit separately in the pantry when they could all have a snow
day party together in my mixing bowl! Again, mom will win with homemade cookies
and of course, I’ll get Monkey Man in on the act:</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Hey, Monkey Man, want to help me make chocolate chip cookies?” I called
out excitedly over Xbox chatter. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />“Umm, now? Can I just finish this game? It’ll take like 2 minutes,” Monkey Man honestly
responded, but I know better. I know that an Xbox game two minutes is
equivalent to a football game two minutes.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">After about 12 minutes, he appeared in the kitchen and helped me. For
about three minutes. He then became quickly bored with this domestic act and
asked to be relinquished to his online friends. Fine. More cookie dough batter
for me - AND you’ll never know when they’re done and where I hid my mommy
stash!</span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">A book. I will indulgently snuggle under a blanket and read a big-kid
chapter book that does not include lesson plans, education theories or other
work-related material. While my sweet gamer loses brain cells to that box, I
will sit on the couch, in my pajamas (which, by the way, although not pictured
as an exhibit, is an absolute essential for a snow day. Or any day in which one
is housebound) and read!</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I will read
funny words that do not include the words quotient, partial products or electrical
current!</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">There
you have it, all ye who shudder at the thought of being left French Toast-less
for your next big snow day. Get yourself together a Snow Day Survival Kit and
welcome the next 3-6 inches. Which, by the way, is currently falling outside my
window. Again. On March 1. F’in Elsa.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Gotta
go find my Survival Kit!<br /><br />What’s in <i>your</i>
Survival Kit? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-42524940358536247232013-12-10T12:36:00.001-05:002013-12-10T12:36:07.298-05:00Cooking and Baking and Making...Not I! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">We have a snow day here in North Jersey. I'm a teacher, my child is a student, so that means we are home all day! However, I just want to put it out there that on this snow day I am not:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">1. Cooking. Someone is roasting a butternut squash today to make soup. Who has a butternut squash just lying around in case of a snow day? </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">2. Baking. Again, five different kinds of cookies are being made today by people in cyberspace. I think I have flour, sugar and baking soda in my cabinet. But these people are whipping up cookies with ingredients like raspberry preserves and ricotta cheese and Crunch bars. (Fine, I know it's Christmas cookie season, but just let me have my rant...)</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br />3. Making crafts with my child. I learned he hated crafts when he was two, so this is never happening regardless of what Pinterest crap pops up on my newsfeed today.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><i>(above facts provided by Facebook, the official source to know everyone else's sh&%)</i></span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I <i>am</i> getting a boatload of paperwork done! Bills to pay, calls to make, lessons to write...in other words, thank God for XBox.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">However, I am taking said child sledding after lunch to ease my guilt of holing myself up in my room while I sift through everything that's been not-so-patiently waiting for me on my desk.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Whew. That was cheaper than a therapist. Thanks for listening.</span>youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-49396199227339246252013-12-02T22:05:00.005-05:002013-12-02T22:17:16.842-05:00You’re a Mean One, Mama Grinch<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Call me a
Grinch, there, it’s said<br />
but I must admit it, this month I dread. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The month of
December just adds more things to my already overflowing to-do list. Here are the Top 10 Things I’d Rather Not Be
Doing in December (or ever): <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>10. Shopping with Hoards of People</b><br />
Grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon in July is equivalent to slowly being
poked in the eyeballs with barbeque skewers.
Any kind of shopping in December on any day of the week at any time of
the day is like walking into 20 foot icicles hanging from my home and having
them conveniently land in all orifices of my body while “It’s the Most
Wonderful Time of the Year” plays on loop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>9. Cooking or Baking</b><br />
I don’t enjoy either in my everyday life so why on Earth would I want to do
mass quantities of it in just a few short weeks? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>8. Making Cards, Addressing Cards, and Mailing Cards</b><br />
You see my family and me on Facebook, isn’t that enough? And really, what do you do with the card when
the season is over? If I told you what I did with the cards I receive after
their three-week basket display, I probably wouldn’t ever receive another card
again. Let's save some trees, people, and my sanity! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>7. Receiving “Wish Lists” to Know Exactly What Someone Wants</b><br />
Unless you are a child making your list for Santa, just stop it. This takes the joy out of giving! Okay, it’s great that I have a guide, but
seriously, what fun is it to buy the purple cashmere sweater in the back right
corner of Macy’s next to the mannequin with the curly hair? Then I have to present this gift to the
recipient as if it were all a big surprise.
Here’s 100 bucks. Go fight the
crowds and get it yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>6. Embarking on a Manhunt for the Perfect Gift</b><br />
Fine, if we just stuck with #7 for people of all ages, this could easily be
avoided. However, I like to have some
kind of element of surprise. I like to
give a gift that shows thought and creativity, like I actually know what a
person likes and can translate that into a gift. Oh, forget it. We all know I’ll just get a gift card.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>5. Seeing on Facebook that “Friends” Were Done Wrapping Their
Gifts on November 20<sup>th</sup></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Show-offs! They get their holiday jollies from feeling
superior to us worker elves grimacing through the season. Let’s add to that
photos of fully completed house decorations posted with the status “Done!” They are begging for comments like, “Wow,
you’re good!” But I beg to differ! They simply have way too much time on their
hands or the incessant need for praise via social media.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>4. Buying a Gift for Someone at Work Whom I Barely Know</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“Hey, I think I saw you in the hallway one day and now I’m your Secret Holiday Little Person. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Now I
get to buy you a generic gift like a candle that you will re-gift at your next
generic party. Happy Generic Holidays!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>3. Attending Holiday Parties and Pretending That I Enjoy Small
Talk</b><br />
I don’t mind putting on a pretty dress and sipping a cocktail or two. However, I’ll probably have to sip three or
four just to get me through the dull conversation with Joshua the financial person who does financial things while I try to stifle a yawn between gulps of my cocktail. Joshua has no idea he is causing me to become an alcoholic as I have to keep drinking to avoid disagreeing with his political and religious beliefs that he is trying to jam down my already alcohol-filled throat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>2. Decorating Inside and Outside, but Mostly Outside</b><br />
Our inside decorations take about an hour, start to finish. Throw up a tree, hang some stockings, and
we’re calling it a holly, jolly Christmas. However it’s the
outside that pains me because 1) I will always find the time to do this task on
the coldest day of the year and 2) I’m afraid of heights and fear that I will
fall 18 inches to my death from my step stool. I don’t
decorate with love in my heart, singing “Deck the Halls,” but rather, for my
son’s memories. One day he will look back and remember his pretty house decorated by a
Grinch at Christmastime. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>And the #1 Thing I’d Rather Not Be Doing in December? Elf on
the F’in Shelf </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Before Elf on the Shelf became popular,<a href="http://youarekidding-me.blogspot.com/2010/12/this-elf-needs-little-help.html"> I created my own imaginary elf </a>just to give myself something else to do in December. Our imaginary elf visits each night from
December 1 through December 24 and leaves a small chocolate like a candy kiss
and sometimes a miniature note for our son in our cloth Christmas calendar that
hangs by the front door. He loves it,
and that’s why the tradition has continued even though 10 of those days I'll be be awoken by a cry of, "Mommmm! The elf didn't come!" while I curse under my breath at our senile elf. The “elf”
forgets a lot of things when her brain is overloaded, which is everyday, and
now the elf must bolt down the stairs, create a diversion, put the candy in the
tiny calendar pocket, call her son back over to the calendar and tell her son
that he just must have missed it, because, “Look, it’s right there!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But I digress. I hate
Elf on the Shelf. We never started the
corporate one, and now he asks what it is and why that creepy doll doesn’t show
up at our house. I have to explain that OUR
elf is all magical and mysterious and miraculously tiny while his friends’
elves stare eerily from atop kitchen cabinets and poop holiday m&m's leaving
them all over the countertop to bring for school snack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Let us “Bah Humbug” together - anything you don’t
particularly look forward to during this festive, overpacked season? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-70322284410805788242013-11-09T17:11:00.000-05:002013-11-09T17:11:35.032-05:00You Gave a Life. Now Get One.Memo from Mom<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To: Parents (probably more the moms, but I’m not going to
assume that) of school-aged children <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Re: You gave a life.
Now get one, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As our children grow older, we are faced with this conflicting
moment when they simply don’t need us as much anymore. They don’t need us sitting on the floor
playing cars and trains (sniffle, sniffle).
But, OH! They don’t need us sitting on the floor playing cars and
trains! (hooray! hooray!) No more
pretending like I enjoy making choo-choo noises for hours on end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are off to school, spending hours in a classroom with
an adult who is paid to expand their minds while entertaining them and running
interference with the myriad social situations they will encounter. Mama is no
longer there refereeing the sandbox watching out for the little girl in
pigtails who looks like an angel but is actually the devil’s spawn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our children naturally want to spend less time with the
people that brought them into this world, more time with the people that will
teach them things about the world that their parents never wanted them to learn
about, and, in a nutshell, gain their independence. This phase can leave many
of us sitting on the living room floor wondering what to do with all those cars
and trains. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I may be so bold, let me tell you what to do. Stand up and go get yourself a life! They don’t need you to spend three hours
pureeing their sweet potatoes anymore (not that they really <i>needed</i> that, Gerber
had it under control). Mommy and Me
classes are a thing of the past replaced by after-school and weekend sports and
activities. Leisurely walks around the
neighborhood with a mommy friend at 10 a.m. pushing strollers have now become
bike rides on a Sunday afternoon. Those
dependent babies are now independence-seeking school kids spending five days a
week, approximately seven hours a day, in school. They are learning about how to become
productive citizens. Now it’s your
turn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s time to show your kids what you’re made of! Let them see that you exist beyond getting
whites whiter and perfecting your crock pot recipe by stalking Pinterest. I’ve seen too many parent “living vicariously
through my kid” casualties to let it go on any longer. Your daughter’s perfect landing at the
gymnastics meet was not <i>your</i> perfect
landing. It was hers. Your son’s “Star of the Day” award from
Kindergarten was not yours. It was his. And telling everyone and their brother about
it still doesn’t make it yours. Yes,
you’re proud. We are ALL proud of our
kids. Go on, be proud. But also, be yourself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have something that’s yours, something that makes you feel
good other than telling the world that your kid doesn’t eat red dyes because
you are mother of the year and we are all here just hooking up our children to
artifical dye IVs. Do something that
belongs to you. If you need or want to
work, go back to your career or start a new career. If you have the luxury (yep, I said it,
luxury) of staying home while the kids are at school, get a hobby that keeps
you engaged and makes you feel good about what YOU can do. This does not mean cleaning out the closets
and alphabetizing the spice rack. Spend
the time that your kids are in school learning about the world and themselves
learning about the world and <i>yourself</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please stop trying to find your self-worth from your
children. All of us parents do the best
we can, have the best of intentions, and we rock in our own ways. Your child’s successes don’t make you
awesome, they make him awesome. Now it’s
your turn to go out and find your own awesomeness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-87371902922713640302013-10-14T15:50:00.000-04:002013-10-14T15:50:34.266-04:00Sexy Halloween Costumes for Kids are No Treat!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjurD66EP4gOKzyKROnwKNhHvmF3LFP78bjD09ap5B0uFBtx4XWYtMjpnVVr6WzAGpzDTKt1jOTCH2ZMaPbfi6PzuiF4TgNcpGZjAzE7X48sUeRoa3bF0XDclVl0TFpxygOQJYJNlP8pfI/s1600/tween-peacock-costume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjurD66EP4gOKzyKROnwKNhHvmF3LFP78bjD09ap5B0uFBtx4XWYtMjpnVVr6WzAGpzDTKt1jOTCH2ZMaPbfi6PzuiF4TgNcpGZjAzE7X48sUeRoa3bF0XDclVl0TFpxygOQJYJNlP8pfI/s320/tween-peacock-costume.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">The innocent holiday of Halloween is upon us when children around the neighborhoods will innocently hold out bags and pillowcases and bright orange plastic pumpkins with nary a "Trick or Treat" while begging for artificial dyes and high fructose corn syrup all the while forgetting their manners. Seriously, if nice strangers are going to give out candy without luring the kiddies into their homes, the least these children can do is say thank you. These tiny thieves are all led by their adult chaperones who also expect me to give them some sugar, so to speak. Yes, bah humbug.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">To make matters worse, the scariest part of this season is not the goblins and ghouls. It's the girls <a href="http://shine.yahoo.com/parenting/walmart-yanks-scandalous-kids-costume-after-uproar-174050085.html">scantily clad in costumes</a>. In just a few weeks, we will open our doors and play, "Guess What I Am?" We will gaze upon a 7 year-old girl standing on our front stoop and guess if she is a kitty cat or a Pussycat Doll. Since I'm pretty sure kitty cats don't wear black lycra mini-skirts with a sequined sports bra, I'm going with the latter.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Even Big Bird and Elmo have gotten their sexy back, but at least their moms and dads at <a href="http://newyork.cbslocal.com/2012/10/20/report-sesame-workshop-not-amused-by-sexy-big-bird-costume/">Sesame Workshop stood up for them</a> and realized it wasn't so cute. Sesame Workshop </span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">was so offended by what a costume marketer did to their precious muppets that it asked them to pull the muppets off their shelves in 2012 (however, a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=sexy+big+bird+costume&rh=i%3Aaps%2Ck%3Asexy+big+bird+costume">quick search</a> will show it's back, but at least mom and dad tried). </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">When, and more importantly, why, did Halloween become a time to completely sexualize young girls? Why are parents sitting at home, perusing the costume circulars, thinking, "Yes! It is totally appropriate for my 5th grade daughter to wear a skirt that barely covers her nether regions and pair that with fish net tights, because that is EXACTLY what a peacock looks like!" </span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Some adults and parents may think it's just an unfortunate by-product of our culture. The other 364 days of the year, our children are seeing their former idol Hannah Montana twerk while bringing a new job description to the sports fans' foam finger. First graders wear shoes with tiny heels and makeup to get themselves that much closer to being a "grown up." However, some of us adults realize, "Hey, WE are the adults. We have a say in what our children are wearing while soliciting sugar on the streets." Some of us are wistfully remembering the days of plastic costumes sticking to our bodies while trying to breathe through a tiny mouth hole on a mask that was held onto our heads by the thinnest, frailest elastic ever made. </span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">So parents, stand up and declare, "I will not let today's trick-or-treat turn into tomorrow's turning tricks!"</span></span></div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-45201540141839424732013-09-02T18:43:00.000-04:002013-09-02T18:43:31.185-04:00Are School Supplies Going to Pot?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFEJyst-vnRGI6FQ-ppKn5lplM87dkIHjxqbjD3Zyu5JSpwB2HqJH7BIDPTN2uyONOdyfkbb5P9ZFWODtKCbXmkAy_Z-xQtJVQo9OClMXIjc0uSZU4fF9sJcKe2qY5qsNwEw9K2CXObc/s1600/school+supplies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFEJyst-vnRGI6FQ-ppKn5lplM87dkIHjxqbjD3Zyu5JSpwB2HqJH7BIDPTN2uyONOdyfkbb5P9ZFWODtKCbXmkAy_Z-xQtJVQo9OClMXIjc0uSZU4fF9sJcKe2qY5qsNwEw9K2CXObc/s320/school+supplies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
Memo from Mom</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
TO: Parents of school-aged children, Boards of Education, and School Administrators<br />RE: Reading, Writing and Socialism 101</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
<br />September always marks a new year for me. Pointy pencils, colorful crayons, neat notebooks and fun folders are way better than sitting at home and feeling like you should be at some fancy soiree donning party hats, gowns and swigging champs (yes, I watch too much <a href="http://www.bravotv.com/the-real-housewives-of-orange-county" style="color: #305cb6; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Real Housewives of OC</a>) to ring in the real new year. Let me go shopping for new clothes, backpacks and lunchboxes and I’ll have a happy, back to school day, minus an excruciating hangover.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
As much as I’ve loved to buy new supplies for myself when I was in school, when I taught school, and now for my son, I’m beginning to feel a bit swindled. I totally understand that schools have tight budgets. I am the first mom to bring in extra tissue boxes, cleaning wipes, hand sanitizer, construction paper or whatever the teacher might need for the classroom. As a teacher, I’ve spent more of my own money than I care to remember on cleaning products, basic supplies and supplemental activities to keep the kids engaged beyond paper, crayons, and my smiling face so I know how teachers need these supplies for the whole class.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
As a parent, when I receive the supply list, I dutifully set out throughout the summer picking up pencils here, notebooks there, sometimes checking sales and sometimes just grabbing supplies as I see them so that I am not in a shopping frenzy the last week of August. However, I’m learning that many schools, and classes in my son’s school, have <a href="http://www.examiner.com/article/communal-school-supplies-are-the-new-norm" style="color: #305cb6; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">communal supplies</a> - as in, “Hey kids, I know you picked out your favorite characters for your folders and mom bought you Elmer’s glue sticks so your papers actually stick, but we are going to put them all in a giant box and redistribute them to anyone in the class whenever they need something. Even if you take care of your one folder for seven months and Sally rips through four in two weeks.”</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
I am all for sharing, but when I’ve hunted down eight highlighters, five notebooks, five pocket folders, six glue sticks, tennis balls for chairs, crayons, etc. all summer long, packed them neatly into my son’s backpack and an overflow bag because we can’t fit all that into a backpack, with instructions to make sure he gives everything to his teacher, I can’t help to feel like a toddler – it’s not fair!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
Most parents participate and use this as a teachable moment for their children – be prepared and follow directions! We spend our hard-earned money on supplies for everyone, while some others don’t contribute. I understand that some families cannot afford supplies, but this is where the district needs to kick in a few bucks, or parents can visit the dollar store.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
Then there is the child who does not know how to care for his or her belongings. When little Joey didn’t bring in his first box of crayons, uses someone else’s crayons, then breaks his crayons because he doesn’t like his picture, Mr. Teacher should not be grabbing more crayons from the community pot to replenish angry Joey’s victims. A note needs to go home to Joey’s parents, saying pay up and bring Joey to therapy.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
I teach my child to share, and he does a fabulous job at it, but if I find out that the Yankees folder we gleefully found is being used by another child, I will stomp my feet in that school office and demand a special PTA meeting. He’s still young enough to feel like a folder with his favorite baseball team is special. He picked it out himself and he will smile when he pulls that folder out of his desk. Don’t tell me he got an 11x17 piece of construction paper folded in half while Timmy across the room is beaming from ear-to-ear with my kid’s Yankees folder.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
Alas, I am not one to simply complain. I will complain AND offer up solutions! Can I suggest that a portion of my beyond ridiculous taxes actually be put towards our children’s educations and not to the salary of the Assistant to the Assistant to the Assistant Superintendent? Districts, throw a few crayons to the kids and just let my child have his Yankees folder. And parents, model what you expect from your children. Follow directions and do what the teacher tells you to do.</div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-30969750938262661022013-07-15T10:55:00.000-04:002013-07-15T10:55:01.003-04:00The mom date - a new venture for Match.com?<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
Mom Dating. Who would have thought that after being married for 5, 10 or 15 years that we would be stuck again in that “asking someone out” stage? Because that’s exactly what attempting a friendship with another mom is like. There is no Match.com for moms seeking moms for friendship and commiseration, so we are left like animals in the wilds of school functions, playgrounds, and baseball fields.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
<br /></div>
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Had I known before I had a child that I would be tossed back into the throes of middle school as a mom, I might have opted to continue living the socialite life of a married woman with a dog. Of course, this is where I proclaim my love for my child and tell you that I wouldn’t trade him for the world blah, blah, blah…</div>
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The only thing that has changed from then until now is in middle school when girls were mean I was anxiously awaiting my period. Now, I’m anxiously awaiting menopause. Other than that, there are still girls on playgrounds gossiping and judging and waiting for their little angels to be dismissed from elementary school. We are all guilty of it, I know. I try hard to not be as guilty of it as others, but it happens.</div>
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However, there have been many times where I’ve had the opportunity to chat or volunteer with a mom and get to know her better. I’ve met a mom or two whom I realized was a cool one in the bunch, someone who seemed on par with things that are important to me in parenting and who enjoyed occasionally bellying up to the breakfast bar in her pajama pants with a juice tumbler of wine on a Saturday night after the kids are in bed ready to dissect Real Housewives of every city in America.</div>
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I jumped ahead, though. Once you get to drinking in your pj’s you have established a friendship, so let me back up. It’s that time after chatting a bunch at school functions and finding out that she, too, considers pajama pants appropriate attire for anything (I obviously highly value women who enjoy comfort). After I’ve learned that she equally values working out hard and eating dessert harder, it can be natural to want to take it one step further and ask the anxiously anticipated fear of rejection question, “Want to grab coffee?”</div>
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Instead of going straight for the solo date, maybe a good strategy would be to use the kids as an excuse like, “Hey, want to take the kids out for ice cream?” then if the group date goes well, we can exchange email addresses (is getting a phone number to text too soon? I don’t know!). Then we can ease into that shared coffee on a Saturday morning while the hubbies have the kids at baseball practice.</div>
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Little kids have no problem walking up to another child at the park and calmly and ever-so-coolly asking, “Want to be my friend?” to which the reply is usually an enthusiastic, “YES!” and off they go running to discover their love of sliding, jumping and spinning in circles. Why can’t moms be like that? After we’ve chatted it up at a few soccer games one mom should just be able to turn to the other mom and excitedly ask, “Want to go shoe shopping?” to which the other would reply “Of course!” and both moms giggle off to the department store while planning an evening of pajama-wearing wine drinking while watching almost any show on Bravo.</div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-49640206669943032532013-07-12T12:53:00.002-04:002013-07-12T12:53:49.744-04:00Jim Gaffigan’s Dad is Fat + My Husband = Most Annoying Alarm Clock<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
Memo from Mom</div>
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To: Jim Gaffigan<br />Re: Thanks for waking me up</div>
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I know, you’re thinking, “How did I WAKE you up? I don’t live with you. And I certainly wasn’t in your bedroom! I’m a married man, you’re a married woman. Stop spreading these lies!”</div>
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Okay, Jim, slow yo’ roll. It’s all because of the Father’s Day gift I bought my husband. Your book, “<a href="http://www.jimgaffigan.com/" style="color: #305cb6; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Dad is Fat</a>” was requested because my husband (and I) are huge fans of your comedy. So I obliged, and am paying dearly for it.</div>
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My husband has this problem where even though he can sleep past 6 a.m. on the weekends, his body won’t let him. Whereas I can will myself to sleep at any point during the day (I totally related to your napping chapter in the book), he just wakes up for no good reason, as if starting his day at the crack of dawn means getting a jump start on the laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning the toilets… but I digress. He doesn’t clean toilets. Or do laundry. You get the picture, Jim.</div>
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No, I will tell you, though, what he does get done at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning when I am enjoying slumber without an alarm clock and our son is contently playing baseball on the Xbox or reviewing the previous night’s baseball games on MLB Network. My husband is reading your laugh-out-loud book, next to me, in bed, with the light on. At 6 a.m. The first time I heard a chuckle it became embedded in part of a dream, I think I had a pet monkey who started laughing at me or something bizarre like that. The next time I heard him laugh, I looked at the clock and thought, “It’s impossible that the one person I share my room with is laughing at this ungodly hour of the day.” The next guffaw brought thoughts of, “Really? He has the light on and is LAUGHING while I am getting my required eight hours so as to not wake up a completely crazy, sleep-deprived person whom he has known for the last 16 years treasures her sleep almost as much as <a href="http://youarekidding-me.blogspot.com/2008/09/is-that-your-tongue.html" style="color: #305cb6; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">her autographed Rick Springfield jeans</a>.</div>
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Rather than smacking my husband on the head in an effort to turn off what I lovingly referred to as the most annoying alarm clock ever, I simply kicked both you and my husband out of my bed. I hope it was good for you, Jim.</div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-64645267200187383552013-07-05T16:34:00.000-04:002013-07-05T16:34:07.018-04:00Can Advil Help This PMS?<div style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
Memo from Mom</div>
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To: Moms with PMS<br />Re: I have a headache from <em>your</em> PMS</div>
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Remember last week at school pick up when you chewed my ear off and told me, “My daughter reads 3 hours a day, goes to piano, karate, Mandarin Chinese and gymnastics lessons 7 days a week and has nary a moment to play on that evil brain-sucking box you call a TV.”?</div>
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And then there was you, yes, you know who you are, that told me at baseball practice, “I saw the cutest project on Pinterest yesterday while drinking my coffee before taking the kids to school and by 11 a.m., I had the perfect bird feeder/organic home garden/entertaining area for my mom friends to lunch with me. Thank goodness I don’t work because it would really get in the way of my very important projects.”</div>
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Hold up, there, mommy, because you had PMS, too! You caught me at Target and couldn’t help yourself, “I went to the gym this morning for two hours because WHO HAS THE TIME to go when the kids get home from school and we need to do our long-range family plan? Plus, I just can’t bear the thought of a second without them.”</div>
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Yep, you all had the same ailment - PMS – Perfect Mother Syndrome.</div>
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Not even the strongest dose of Advil – for <em>me</em>, the person enduring the sputterings of you, the PMS afflicted mom – can handle the headache and moodiness this kind of perfection boasting can bring on. I can only nod, smile politely, and roll my eyes in my imagination while you attempt to feel better about yourself.</div>
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However, your raging PMS inflicts not only your own painful perfectionism on yourself, but on others, as well. You tell whoever will listen – or whoever hasn’t blocked your statuses on Facebook – about the fabulous art projects you’ve created with your children on a rainy day (while I cleaned the house and my kid played Xbox until his thumbs were sprained). I don’t care about the 100 cake pops you made after you took your three kids to their NJ ASK prep class. It all pains me more than my monthly uterine contractions.</div>
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As a fellow mom, I do get it. A little bit. We all get a touch of PMS. We find ourselves at some point looking for our Super Mom capes in an attempt to do it all – work, take care of our kids, run the house, get in a workout, and volunteer at school - and we mention it to others in conversation. However, many of us try to do it with grace and humility in a simple effort to survive. I don't really care what you think of me, but I do care that you think you are better than me. Your Zero Tolerance Policy on sugar sweetened drinks makes you not a better mother.</div>
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I have no shame in letting you know that I loathe cooking, that I buy gift cards for teachers rather than making homemade gifts with my kid's picture on it, and I bring store-made brownies to parties. You'll find my kid's report card hung proudly on our fridge, but I won't stop you while I'm walking the dog to let you know how he did in 2nd grade spelling. <em>Side note: Although my house is pretty much always neat and clean because of my ridiculous, obsessive compulsion to put things away, this is not to impress you and the Joneses, but to keep the voices in my head down to a whisper.</em></div>
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We are all moms, trying the best we can. You’re just trying a little too hard and advertising it, so please, take two Advil. You can call me in the morning, but please, I beg you, don't tell me about the five-course breakfast you just prepared for your family.</div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-48313743970614727462013-06-05T11:43:00.000-04:002013-06-05T11:43:00.665-04:00Adventures of Messy Mommy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJ8A8VOqnwwyIEbMt58MmkhV1yGkLAarfFlrA8ZQxuusW6RwGobyr1l93kGvDsYhCYvYC2hF5YjvpZ_DHYXWKB8dWGW77MCpv4Zy_XwlGfFu5dvRAR51swC06VjqgqHqiEsIwnGOeAgc/s1600/hotel+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJ8A8VOqnwwyIEbMt58MmkhV1yGkLAarfFlrA8ZQxuusW6RwGobyr1l93kGvDsYhCYvYC2hF5YjvpZ_DHYXWKB8dWGW77MCpv4Zy_XwlGfFu5dvRAR51swC06VjqgqHqiEsIwnGOeAgc/s400/hotel+room.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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Memo from Mom</div>
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To: Housekeeping at any hotel in which I am a guest<br />Re: Many, many thanks</div>
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After staying at a wonderful hotel last weekend, I felt the need to write a thank you not only to that hotel, but to each one in which I have been – and will be- a guest. Hotel housekeeping, I know you will not believe this, but I am a neat freak at home, taking great pains to make sure everything is in its place. Clothing is either in a drawer, a closet, or a hamper. Contrary to my husband’s daily actions, the floor is not an appropriate resting place for socks, t-shirts, or jeans. Bath towels get placed on hooks or bars to dry and if someone forgets (I’m looking at you, sweet child o’mine) and leaves a towel on the floor, I appear like a Domestic Superhero and swoop down on that towel and give it its proper resting place.</div>
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I cannot close my eyes in bed at night if my husband’s dresser drawers are not shut all the way. If a shirt is peeking out at me, I will get up to make sure it is tucked away properly. Dishes do not stay in my sink thanks to a dishwasher (and a woman in this house, ahem, who puts them in that miraculous modern-day machine). The carpets get vacuumed at least once daily if not twice no thanks to an incredibly cute, large, shedding black-furred dog in our house. There is a canister of Clorox wipes under every sink in this house to ensure total anti-bacterialism in all bathrooms and the kitchen.</div>
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However, hotel housekeeping, you do not know the real me. You know my alter ego, Messy Mommy. I love to travel, but even more, I love to stay in a hotel and go balls out wild on the hotel room! There is nothing like opening my suitcase and putting my crap EVERYWHERE. I am not a fan of putting my clothes in the hotel drawers, so my suitcase vomits clothing. Sure, I’ll hang some things in the closet if I am staying long enough, but it’s just so much fun to see it all spilling out of the suitcase, crying for its real mom to come back and make it all neat and pretty.</div>
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But the bathroom is where the real action takes place, as you know. So many towels, so little time! And I don’t have to wash them! What, I only used that towel to dry my hair? Well it is used and now must go! I took great pleasure the other day while enjoying all of the above luxuries and then, when I was done using the washcloth in the shower, I had nowhere to put the washcloth so I <em>threw it</em> over the shower door onto the floor. Just a simple toss and a wet SPLAT. It was a beautiful thing. There it sat, amid the other discarded washcloths, hand towels and bath towels, used but only once, ready to be laundered. But not by me! Ha! (And yes, I am totally aware of hotels trying to help save the world with their little signs to hang towels only used once. Hilarious! If I have a housekeeper at my fingertips, you can darn well bet I will ensure that housekeeper's employment. I do my part for the earth at home. I’m on vacation. Lay off).</div>
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Housekeeping, I realize you know me only as a messy guest. And I do apologize. But you must understand that most likely I am on vacation or at least on vacation from being preoccupied with every house detail at home. I am not breaking lamps or peeing off my balcony (those days are long gone). Please don’t judge and let a mom live and feel the simple freedom of towels strewn about without having an anxiety attack.</div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-32413396898766053712013-04-08T13:29:00.002-04:002013-04-08T14:54:19.496-04:00Best Birthday Ever - Magic Kingdom, Jellyrolls and, How Old Do You Think I Am? <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAw61PFp7YvscgMitzpf8bDgvXg9z4_fr1tDP0hJqej-8VCBpgppE-UY7L62tYx0XolwJ160ogErbaehiCkdLW0R9HSgLunx63R6ovhuJuDNoTlqgfcdCDLRSIYVcaUQAE6YT_7SvIlaA/s1600/mk+moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAw61PFp7YvscgMitzpf8bDgvXg9z4_fr1tDP0hJqej-8VCBpgppE-UY7L62tYx0XolwJ160ogErbaehiCkdLW0R9HSgLunx63R6ovhuJuDNoTlqgfcdCDLRSIYVcaUQAE6YT_7SvIlaA/s320/mk+moon.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monkey Man, Hubby and me in Fantasyland at the Magic Kingdom with a beautiful full moon on my birthday</td></tr>
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I celebrated my 39 years on this planet at the Happiest
Place on Earth. No, it was not in Rick
Springfield’s bedroom as you might have thought, but in Disney World. It was really a surprise trip for Monkey Man
to visit his grandparents who recently moved to central Florida, but lucky me,
our trip just happened to fall smack dab on my birthday celebrating the last
year of my 4th decade.</div>
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When Hubby and I planned the trip, I strategically organized
our activities so that our day at the Magic Kingdom would fall on my real,
actual birthday (said in my best 4 year-old voice). Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, ice cream on
Main Street, and fireworks over the castle sounded like the best damn birthday
any 39 year-old kid could have. I even
shared it with 100,000 of my closest strangers since we were there the week
before Easter which is the peak of their Peak Season. </div>
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Hubby threw in an extra surprise. He arranged to have his parents stay with
Monkey Man on the night before my birthday (since the night of my birthday was
reserved for this grown woman to watch Tinkerbell fly out of the magical
Cinderella castle) so that we could visit our favorite Disney adult hot-spot –
<a href="http://www.jellyrolls.us/">Jellyrolls</a>. Jellyrolls is a dueling piano
sing-along bar and we go there every time we visit Disney World, which is once
a year. I would get to start my birthday
with napkin requests of Jessie’s Girl and end my birthday with fireworks? This birthday just could not get any better.</div>
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We met a friend, <a href="http://www.funeeestuff.com/">Rob Torres</a>, at Jellyrolls who travels the
world as an entertainer and he just happened to be in Orlando for a few days at
the same time as us. We sang, we danced, we laughed and I gave Hubby an
affectionate whack on the back when the piano players announced my birthday and
my AGE! “Happy Birthday to Pam who is
39!” they screamed into their
microphones and laughed before proceeding to play all my 80s music that I
requested. Age was just a number for me
until it was announced to about 100 other people at a piano bar on a Monday
night.</div>
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The night went on and they joked about how I was 35, 29 and
by the end of the night I was 24. I was
like a real-life Benjamin Button and had no problems with that. The piano players take turns each hour, and
while I was using the ladies’ room, I bumped into one of the players in the
hallway. “Happy Birthday, Pam!” he said
and then, unbeknownst to him, followed it with the Best. Damn. Gift. EVER. </div>
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“You’re not really 39, right?” he questioned. I beamed back, “Yes I am and THANK YOU!” as I
bowed my gratitude to him. His response,
“Wow, what do you EAT?”</div>
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I don’t know about what I eat, but drinks are on me, so
belly up to the bar because we are celebratin’!
Here’s to 39! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9kH9aq7YnwTptJPUQh0rPFABLVjykhnaGwO0uXxr_uAOvPuiJEMHNUe9zXZSMkoQCFPkPqbNsxB0h-5OUVQSK-uvKPCDIPi6DhUXFkOqslf61UbAEarfpwWja3ae6Cz1dCXOtBE8d38/s1600/pam+rob_crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9kH9aq7YnwTptJPUQh0rPFABLVjykhnaGwO0uXxr_uAOvPuiJEMHNUe9zXZSMkoQCFPkPqbNsxB0h-5OUVQSK-uvKPCDIPi6DhUXFkOqslf61UbAEarfpwWja3ae6Cz1dCXOtBE8d38/s320/pam+rob_crop.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My other date, Rob, and I at Jellyrolls</td></tr>
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youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-20678580636622487322013-03-15T14:06:00.000-04:002013-03-15T14:06:18.253-04:00C'mon Kids, Share! Adults Need IEPs, too!<br />
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Individualized Education Plans (IEPs) are all the rage these
days for children in America. They
assist kids with a range of needs from fine motor skill development to extended
time on tests and assignments due to attention difficulties, reading
comprehension, and a host of other needs that, back in my day (and my day
wasn’t so long ago) would have had us kids separated into homogeneous
classrooms learning at the same pace as our peers. Before you get your knickers in a knot, I do
believe in the IEP and how these legal documents can help a child be successful
in school. </div>
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However, this is the part where I stomp my feet and yell,
like a child with Oppositional Defiant Disorder, “It’s not FAIR!” As adults, we
have to muddle through our lives succumbing to our challenges and special needs
without anyone helping us. I need an IEP
to deal with situations that come up last minute with no regard to planning or
organization. In order to function in my
daily life, I have lists of things to do today, tomorrow, next week, what to
buy, who to call, deadlines, due dates…you get the point. </div>
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Imagine my outrage when I received an email on Monday at
about 2 p.m. that announced my son’s first baseball practice is on Friday at
6:30 p.m. Friday is my son’s sleepover
birthday party which has been planned for over a month, because that is what I
do for the convenience of my life and as a courtesy to others – I plan. If the baseball program had my IEP and would
have differentiated their instruction for each player and his parents, they
would have known that this mama doesn’t do four days notice. Upon reading through my IEP they would have
made note: “Notify parent at least 2 weeks in advance so as to not have
encourage catastrophic decapitation when mother’s head explodes off her body.”</div>
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But alas, there are no IEPs for the adults. If there were,
I’d like mine to look a little something like this:</div>
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<b>General Accommodations:<br />
</b>Attention/Focusing Cues = Take the following out of the room if you want
Pam to accomplish something: All cleaning apparatus as she will clean and
organize anything rather than the task at hand, photos of Rick Springfield and
chocolate chip cookies. </div>
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Use of Preferred
Learning Style = Pam is a visual learner.
Do not read things aloud to her as she will become agitated and say,
“Just give me the paper so that I can read it.”
Do not attempt any kind of verbal mathematical calculations, as she can
barely figure that stuff out when it is written. Graphs, charts, and spreadsheets all work
well with Pam’s learning style. </div>
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Length of Time for
Assessments/Assignments = Pam is obsessed with deadlines so not only will she
finish on or before time, she expects the same of everyone else. No
modifications here. Just do it, people. </div>
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<b>Annual Goal:</b>Pam will work towards being more spontaneous
and just going with the flow.
Hahaha! Kidding! She will, however, try to understand the
disorganized people of this world and show empathy for their lack of awareness
for other people’s lives.</div>
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<b>Strategies and Accommodations:</b>Pam will be permitted to not verbalize her
feelings but instead roll her eyes and use passive aggressive body language to
convey how she feels.</div>
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Modeling, role play, rewards, consequences
using the assertive discipline approach = chocolate chip cookies accepted as
positive rewards.</div>
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Establish and use consistent routine, prepare
for transitions well in advance. Keep as predictable a schedule as possible =
THIS is what I’m talking about, people!</div>
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<b>Comments:</b>A program of expected behaviors and
consequences will be established. Rewards including first row seats at a Rick
Springfield concert, pedicures, and beach getaways for expected behavior will
be given at the end of an agreed upon time interval. Negative behavior will not
be acknowledged in this tracking format, but will be identified by Pam’s family
when she loses her mind because other people aren’t doing what they need to do
in order for Pam to function properly.
Should onset of mind loss be detected, husband is instructed to give Pam
whatever time she needs at the gym to decompress, as this is her best
anti-stress tool.</div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-75858303432031735312013-02-05T13:44:00.002-05:002013-02-05T13:44:19.189-05:00Going for His M.A. - Minecraft Anonymous<br />
Memo from Mom<br />
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To: The American Academy of Pediatrics<br />
Re: You and your entertainment media studies<br />
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According to you, <a href="http://www.aap.org/en-us/advocacy-and-policy/aap-health-initiatives/Pages/Media-and-Children.aspx">“today's children are spending an average of seven hours a day on entertainment media, including televisions, computers, phones and other electronic devices.” </a>Seriously, how is this possible, especially on a school day? Our children are barely home and awake for seven hours. There is homework, sports, dinner and activities. I think you totally made up this statistic, AAP.<br />
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However, you did say that number is an average so I guess we need to factor in weekends, too. If I’m doing the math correctly, kids would need to spend about 4 hours per weekday (that equals 20 hours total) and 29 hours on Saturday and Sunday. This would give us 49 hours total for the week, divided by seven days in a week for an average of seven hours per day.<br />
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C’mon, though, <em>twenty-nine hours</em> on entertainment media on the weekend? That is about 15 hours per day. What child gets up at 7 a.m. and does not move from an electronic device until 10 p.m., which is past my kids’ bedtime anyway? Fine, we have to take into consideration the older kids, but they wake up later and go to bed later.<br />
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Many parents are guilty of letting a lazy day go by with our kids when we simply need them to stay in one place while we accomplish the myriad of things to do on our list. Please, AAP, cut parents some slack and lay off the extreme guilt trip. You are worse than our mothers.<br />
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As parents, we are exhausted. All week long we have worked and cleaned and cooked and driven our offsprings’ butts to practices and friends’ houses. Sometimes saying yes to watching five episodes of <em>Spongebob</em> followed by four hours of what my son considers the greatest video game ever created – Minecraft – is just what a parent needs in order to complete a long-overdue project or just plain think like a normal, functioning human being.<br />
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However, crazy statistics which I do not necessarily think were properly researched aside, I understand the <a href="http://www.aap.org/en-us/about-the-aap/aap-press-room/aap-press-room-media-center/Pages/Limit-Television-60-Second.aspx">demonic effects </a>on a child’s brain and body when the free babysitter rears its horns. On the off chance that you have any credibility, my husband and I decided we needed to enforce some rules around this entertainment media fiasco. We knew too well that if the Betty Ford Clinic opened a Minecraft wing, our son could be first on the list if we didn’t stage our own intervention.<br />
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Our rules are pretty simple: our Minecraft addict can only use the computer, iTouch, Xbox, or watch television for one hour a day. He can earn more time by doing recreational reading or by playing. What counts as playing? Since our son enjoys sports and couldn’t care less about toys like Legos or action figures, it’s just some old-fashioned running around, drawing, writing stories, playing self-created ball games (where there is a ball, he will play) – anything that does not involve a wire, battery and/or electricity counts.<br />
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Just the other day, our little electronic junkie finished up his 60 minutes of video game/TV/computer bliss. He put down his iTouch and announced, “I’m going to read! Gotta get me some more minutes!” I beamed proudly, knowing that the detox was slowly taking effect and with any luck, we would avoid the shakes and sweats.<br />
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Do we fall off the electronics wagon on the weekends sometimes? Of course. We try the best we can to set limits. Hey, at least we don't walk around bragging that our kid "really doesn't like TV" or "only plays video games on the weekend." When parents say that, the other parents are all rolling their eyes and coughing into their hands saying, "bullpoop."<br />
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1606701646645334531.post-10209483674592059752013-01-25T09:37:00.000-05:002013-01-25T09:37:11.466-05:00Girl Scouts Teach Delicious Life Lessons<br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; font-style: italic; line-height: 13px; text-align: right;">Photo by Marit & Toomas Hinnosaar</span></div>
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Memo From Mom</div>
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TO: Everyone who has a kid selling something for a fundraiser<br />RE: Cookies for sale! And wrapping paper and nuts and gift cards and…</div>
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I will be the first person to say that Girl Scout Cookie Delivery Day should be a national holiday. All work should cease so that Americans can sit peacefully and binge on Thin Mints, Samoas, Thin Mints and some more Thin Mints. No need to wear your fanciest clothes. Simply don your best elastic waistband pants and settle in for a day of pure cookie nirvana.</div>
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I do love Girl Scout Cookies, and am very willing to partake in this old-fashioned, door-to-door sales approach. When a young, eager Girl Scout knocks on my door accompanied by her mom or dad, I have to buy a box or nine of these overpriced artificially preserved delicacies. Even if I shopped with a coupon or two that morning to save a buck, when Girl Scout Cookie time rolls around, I don’t bat an eye at the obscene amount of money it costs for a box of approximately 12 cookies. How could I deny a child working hard and pounding the pavement for her beloved organization? I do it for the charity, I do it for the community and sense of pride for the girls and yes, I do it all for the cookie.</div>
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However, when order forms are taped to the lunchroom table at work soliciting my hard-earned money for little Joey’s wrapping paper sale or Janie’s chocolate sale and yes, even for Girl Scout Mary’s Tagalongs, it is quite easy to ignore the silent pleas coming from those faceless forms. This method of passive fundraising doesn’t teach our kids the value of hard work, communication, or graciousness. It simply says, “Look, my kid wants to win a cheap plastic flyer disc. We have no intention of bringing him or her around the neighborhood and teaching our child to say hello, explain the fundraiser to practice good verbal skills, engage in small talk with a neighbor and to say thank you face-to-face with our consumers. We want to get in, get out and get done.”</div>
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Let’s add Facebook begging to this, now. We are in the throes of Girl Scout Cookie selling season and I cannot log on to Facebook without being bombarded by people letting me and the world know that their child is selling Girl Scout Cookies. “Patty wants to win an Xbox! Please Buy!” I don’t care if Patty wants to save starving koalas in Australia. Tell Patty to visit or call me and tell me all about the Girl Scouts and how she makes ten cents for her $4.00 box then we’ll talk.</div>
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Let's not forget the tried and true best way of selling anything - including beachfront property in Arizona - the grandparents. If time doesn’t allow for neighborhood canvassing and you need to boost sales by a box or 20, hit Grandma up. That’s what we do.</div>
youarekiddingmehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01911160733642324113noreply@blogger.com0