How it feels when you get carded in your 30s…

Posted on July 22, 2015 | 2 comments

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Voted Most Likely to Write an Awkward Blog

Posted on July 19, 2015 | Leave a comment

Dear fellow high school classmates,

‘Sup?

Or…I don’t know.

Greetings!

Or however the hell we’re supposed to address each other now that we’re all in our 30s. Hi? Hello? Salutations my brothers-and sisters-in-arms in the war known as the Public Education System?

You’ll all be glad to know, as per your multiple requests in my yearbook, that I did, in fact, stay cool but didn’t freeze. I also had a great summer, I tried my best never to change and yes, Hank, my boobs finally did come in. I’m also happy to report that although I am one of the laziest people alive (I once ate spaghetti while lying down), I did make fairly good on my promise to stay in touch with you, thanks to technology invented by people who graduated a mere three years behind us.

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Yes, courtesy of Facebook, we all get a daily peek into each other’s lives, sharing photos of our kids (holy crap, we have KIDS) and keeping up to date on everybody’s career (holy crap, we have CAREERS, with bank accounts and everything…possibly even retirement accounts for those of us who don’t feel the need to eat spaghetti lying down). In fact, it’s pretty much eliminated the need for reunions (especially if you’re shot-gunning beers while scrolling through Facebook).

Which brings me to the rather uncomfortable reason why I’m writing this. Now, I don’t want to alarm anyone but it’s…hmm…how do I put this delicately? This year marks 15 years since we graduated and WE ARE ALL OLD AND PRACTICALLY DEAD ALREADY.

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I don’t know if any kind of reunion is being planned (although if I was supposed to help plan it and accidentally forgot because I have a toddler who has turned my brain to mush, don’t worry, I totally sent out the invitations…they probably, most definitely, I’m almost 99 percent sure got lost in the mail). But just in case we all aren’t able to get together, I figured I’d take this opportunity to ask you guys a few questions I’ve been wondering about. Questions that I really only feel comfortable asking you since we all grew up together and all remember each other before we had to do disgusting grown-up stuff like pluck random black hairs from our cheek and groan involuntarily while getting up from the couch.

For instance, do you ever stare obsessively at your face in the mirror after a shower and look for new evidence of wrinkles with the same ferocity you used to look for pimples?

No? Yeah, me either.

But do you ever get a weird bruise on your hip that mysteriously appears one day and won’t go away and you’ve pretty much convinced yourself that it’s cancer? Or the plague? Or gout (which used to be a funny word until you realized you might have it)?

No? Really? Well, me neither. I was just asking for a friend. A much OLDER friend.

Have you ever turn on the radio and realized you didn’t know any of the songs and why do they all sound so whiny and like they’re singing through a fan and is it necessary to use the word “baby” that often and oh my god, we’ve turned into our parents.

Anyone else find it weird Paul Rudd isn’t aging?

Have you ever not insignificantly injured your neck just by falling asleep on your lumpy couch? I mean, I haven’t obviously, cause that’s only something that happens to old people, but I was just curious if YOU guys knew anything about that. Which you don’t, of course. Because we’re all the same age. And that age is young. Very, very young.

Anyone else find it weird that they can’t remember where they left their keys, or their phone, or their child (oh, just the one time, calm down) but can still remember all the lyrics to Warren G’s “Regulate?”

No? Just me? Hmm. Well, at least all you skirts still know what’s up with 213.

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Ever hear a news story about stupid teens getting caught doing something stupid and think to yourself, “well, we were never like that,” only to remember that we were totally just like that, only slightly better because we never got caught?

Yeah. Me either. And if my son ever asks, you better tell him that or I will FIND you.

But let me ask you this: Have you ever tried fitting back into your high school jeans, lying down on the bed to try and zip them up and then jumping up in victory only to pass out immediately because it cut off all your blood circulation and then waking up in the emergency room where some doctor is surgically removing the jeans off your legs?

No? Haha! Yeah, no, me either. I was just kidding. That would be CRAZY. And sad. Very, very sad.

Anyhoo, it was great catching up with all of you. And, if I may, I’d like to leave you all on this note…

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P.S. Happy retirement, Mr. Boeke!

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You have to choose your battles

Posted on July 14, 2015 | 7 comments

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Spongebrain NoPants (or How to Make Your Kid Wicked Smart)

Posted on July 11, 2015 | Leave a comment

I’d always heard the phrase “a child’s brain is like a sponge, soaking up everything.” But it wasn’t until I had a kid of my own that I began to truly understand just what that meant.

Their brains are, indeed, little sponges. Little, tiny, thirsty sponges that soak up any and all knowledge. In particular, any knowledge that may be left in the dwindling juices of their parents’ sleep-deprived brains.

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It’s all very sudden. One day they’re just lying there like adorable lumps of leaky clay, completely uninterested in Mr. Cloppity McHoover that you keep jangling in front of their face. They downright ignore your Oscar-worthy reenactment of “On The Night You Were Born” (complete with your dead-on impression of a tap-dancing polar bear). And as for peek-a-boo? Forget it. They couldn’t care less that you freaking DISAPPEARED for three seconds and then came back using nothing other than the power of your hands (which, let’s be honest, is a little hurtful).

And then BOOM. Suddenly they wake up and want to know EVERYTHING. What does Mr. Cloppity McHoover taste like? Let’s bite his face and find out.

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What is the symbolism and literary merit of dancing polar bears? Let’s gnaw on this book spine and find out. Where does Momma go during peek-a-boo? Let’s bite her finger and make her yell because it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Before you know it, they move onto the big questions. What’s that? And then there’s what’s that? And, of course, perhaps the biggest question of all, what’s that?

Yes, my son, who at 16-months still can’t (or more likely won’t) call me Momma (and instead refers to me as “Eh”), can say “what’s that?” so clearly and distinctly that it would make even poor Professor Higgins* weep with joy. I mean, granted, he’s had plenty of practice considering he’s asked me this question no less than 683 times a day, every day, for the past two months. But still, being that I’m his Eh, it makes me proud.

And exhausted.

Oh, so exhausted.

Don’t get me wrong. I love that my son wants to know all the things. But when I say “all the things,” I really mean All. The. Things.

He doesn’t just want to know what a tree is. Or even what a leaf on that tree is. No, he wants to know what every single leaf on every single branch of that tree is.

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And even that would be hypothetically doable, this game of naming everything in the known universe, if it weren’t for one teeny tiny detail:

He never, ever remembers a thing.

Yes, toddlers have horrible, horrible memories. Oh sure, he remembers the important things. He never forgets that 5 a.m. is TIME TO WAKE UP. Even if he stayed up until 4 a.m. the night before. Doesn’t matter. Cause 5 a.m. is TIME TO WAKE UP. No exceptions.

He also remembers that he’s not supposed to pull Mommy’s books out from the bookshelf. This, of course, doesn’t mean he doesn’t do it. He does. All the time. He just knows he’s not supposed to be doing it while he’s doing it, which is why he runs drunkenly on his tiny legs every time he snatches my copy of “The Hobbit” and hides oh-so-cleverly behind his playpen, which is made from 100 percent see-through mesh.

And he also remembers with startling clarity who Elmo is, which is why if you dare to even whisper the “E” word in our house, he will run drunkenly and directly to the TV and point and cry until that little high-pitched red demon is on the screen.

But as for anything else, WOOP! In one ear and out the other.

And that is why I just spent the last hour with him looking through all the pages of his “Good Night, Good Night, Construction Site” book. Not reading it, mind you. But slowly turning the pages and stopping every time we came to a page that had the moon on it so he could point to said moon and ask “what’s that?” while I answer “the moon…again.”

I’m sure, developmentally speaking, this is a very good sign. Of something. I have no idea what. My college childhood development classes** were many years and many, many beers ago.

So, I’m not complaining.***

Because in the end, curiosity in children should always be nurtured. No matter how brain-dead it makes you.

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*Old white dude from “My Fair Lady” who has a fetish for Spanish weather.

**Oh yeah, in addition to my journalism degree, I have a teaching degree. So, sleep tight tonight knowing that someday I could be the one in charge of your child’s brain…Muah-hahaha!

***Ha! Just kidding! This whole thing is pretty much one long complaint.

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How to communicate with your toddler (or “The Diaper Incident”)

Posted on July 9, 2015 | 2 comments

It’s always an exciting time when your precious toddler moves from the pre-verbal stage to the almost-verbal stage. You know, when they’re just talking up a storm but in a dialect and a language that you don’t quite understand because it doesn’t exist anywhere else in the entire universe.

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Take this recent incident between my son and I. See, currently his favorite game is “Drag All The Random Crap Out From His Room Into The Living Room And Into Momma’s Awaiting Hands.” The only rules I have imposed on this game are to not bring out his clean clothes from his dresser or the diapers from the diaper hangy thing (probably not its official name).

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We were playing this game yet again one afternoon when he brought out one of the diapers from the aforementioned hangy diaper thing. Being the amazing mother I am and knowing how important it is to give children boundaries and stick to them, I made him put it back.

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But then, a few minutes later, after handing me a rubber duck, a dust-covered binkie and his most prized possession, my left flip-flop, he brought out ANOTHER diaper. This time, I sternly laid down the law (again, because my mothering skills are unparalleled).

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And would you believe, he went back in his room and immediately came out with yet ANOTHER diaper, handing it to me while loudly and sternly proclaiming “Bah doo ishbah!” Kids, I tell you. They always have to push those boundaries (as any wise mother such as myself knows).

Well, believe you me I told him to put it back.

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And then…well, then he made his point the only way he possibly could when your wise, perfect, idiot mother is absolutely not listening to you. He reached into the diaper he was currently wearing and showed me in no uncertain terms that he had shat himself.

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“Oh…so, guess you need a diaper change then, yeah?” I sheepishly said to him.

And walking toward his room with as much dignity as one could muster with a pantsful of poop, my son replied over his shoulder, “Duh.”

It just goes to show you, communicating with your toddler can be rough at this stage. But with a little bit of love and a whole lot of patience, they’ll eventually teach us stupid parents to listen.

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I’m happy…and it’s just the worst

Posted on July 3, 2015 | 3 comments

Writer’s block.

Block o’ the writer.

Le bloc de scribe.

Blockity block block.

Block is a funny word.

Block.

Block.

Block.

And the word has lost all meaning to me.

Block. It doesn’t even sound like a real word. Blockblockblockblockblockblock.

I want cheese.

I don’t know if you can tell or not, but I’ve been having a touch of the writer’s block lately. So please forgive me for my introduction. I once had an English professor tell me that the only cure for writer’s block was to just start writing, even if it didn’t make sense, and eventually the words would start flowing.

And he was right. They are now, indeed, flowing. Right up shit creek. Sans paddles.

A point. I should have a point. Yes, because that is what writing is for, to get to “the” point. Unless it’s poetry. Or a thinly-veiled autobiographical novel by a 25-year-old post-grad student who writes on a typewriter because it’s more “authentic.”

The point is, I’m happy. And that is, obviously, the problem.

See, happy people generally don’t become writers. Not that they can’t or that there aren’t currently happy people writing. Or even that an otherwise miserable writer can’t be happy from time to time. But there is a reason the majority of the best ones end up in the gutter dying of tuberculous and alcoholism and cousin-marrying diseases.

Let’s put it this way, our most optimistic motto comes from Ernest Hemingway and goes “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

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A lot of writing comes from dark places. Even if you fancy yourself a humor writer, such as a certain someone I know that is totally me. In fact, I’d even be willing to throw out the theory that funny writing often comes from some of the darkest places of all. I got ten bucks that says Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck and Mark Twain all sacrificed baby goats and then drank a gallon of whiskey before putting pen to paper.

And while in general I think I’m a fairly content and optimistic person, there was always some deep down angst I could draw from before in my writing, no matter how great my life was going. Daddy issues. An eating disorder. Betrayals by former boyfriends. Financial instability. The premature cancelation of “Firefly.” That one time I had to go to the grocery store the day before Thanksgiving.

Not that I really wrote about those particular things (the grocery store incident notwithstanding…that one was a three-parter). I just used my former bitterness and sadness to help me laugh at the world. In fact, that’s why I wanted to become a humor writer in the first place. The world is significantly less scary if you can make fun of it.

However, I am currently living through what will be my good ‘ol days. And I am lucky enough to realize this as I’m going through it. Which is amazing.

But as a writer, it’s kryptonite. No one wants to read about other people’s happy lives. We want to read about how messed up other people’s lives are so we feel better about our own messed up lives. We weren’t forced kicking and screaming to read “Anna Karenina” in high school because she ends up happily married with a half dozen adorable, cherubic babies running happily through her skirts. No! We were forced to read it so we could all go “well, at least my life ain’t as screwed up as that chick’s.”

It’s like my stupid, adorable, perfect husband and my stupid, adorable, perfect son and our stupid, adorable, perfect life together has shot a ray of pure friggin’ sunshine and rainbows into my very own heart of darkness. How do you make fun of your life and have sentences dripping with snark when you wake up every morning like bloody freaking Snow White, singing as you get dressed and feeling absolutely no desire to throw your hot coffee on the bird singing outside your window?

I’m happy, dammit.

I guess the only thing to do now is just sit back and enjoy it like the happy and mature person I apparently am now. (But all while secretly counting down the days until my baby hits the Terrible Twos and I’ll be miserable again).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go think of some trivial subject that I can pick a fight with my husband over so I have a topic for next week.

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Posted in Family, Health, Humor, Writing

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A Statistical Analysis of my Toddler’s Vocabulary

Posted on June 24, 2015 | 1 comment

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Let’s hear it for the boys…

Posted on June 17, 2015 | Leave a comment

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34 Things I’ve Learned in 34 Years

Posted on June 14, 2015 | 1 comment

My birthday is next week. Which means it’s that time again. Time to reflect on all the ways I’ve grown wiser. All the ways I’ve matured. All the ways I’ve perfected my spitball-throwing ability.

And as such, here are the 34 things I’ve learned in 34 years…

1. There are a lot of horrible things that happen to people every day. The dude at Burger King forgetting your fries is not one of them.

2. Never cheat on your spouse. Even if it means nothing to you, it was just five minutes, you just wanted a little taste, a little thrill. It’s not worth it. No matter how much you want to watch the next episode of “Game of Thrones” before they get home.

3. If a woman breastfeeding in public offends you, by all means you should feel free to avoid all public spaces.

4. If you find a coffee shop without a long line, RUN. It means the zombie apocalypse is finally upon us.

5. Marriage isn’t a race, it’s a marathon. Only instead of stopping every few miles to chug water, you head to the bar and chug beer.

6. Everyone needs to stop making fun of women who wear yoga pants and flip flops in public. We were once forced to wear corsets and bind our feet. Not to mention the jelly shoes we wore as children in the 80’s, which were basically tiny plastic blister factories. We’ve paid our dues and earned the right to be comfortable no matter where we are.

7. Baking is an art not everyone can master. But you throw enough cocoa powder into the batter and pretty much anything is edible.

8. Children should be seen and not heard. Because if you can’t see them, chances are high they are rubbing Vaseline all over the dog and eating a blue marker.

9. Remember that you can always turn your life around. Just look at Ryan from “The O.C.” Now he’s police commissioner and his best friend is Batman.

10. To you, that 3D ultrasound photo of your unborn baby is a beautiful rendering of your precious miracle. To the rest of us, it’s a horrifying image of baby Skeletor.

11. Always turn your weaknesses into your strengths. For instance, in my almost 34 years here on earth, I have never successfully folded a burrito. But that’s why Monday night dinners are called “Mexican Waffle Cone Night” in my house.

12. Is there any sound better than the sound of a child’s laughter? Yes. The sound of a cranky child finally napping.

13. No, you weren’t a queen in your past life. You were likely a peasant who died of scurvy.

14. There is only one way to end a friendship with another woman you no longer wish to be friends with without hurting her feelings. And that way is one of you has to die.

15. Just when you lose faith in humanity, some genius comes along and sets a Beyonce video to the “DuckTales” theme song and your faith is restored.

16. Always do the voices when reading aloud to your kid.

17. I don’t care what anyone says, pets adopted from the shelter know you rescued them.

18. Don’t let your age determine your style. Be you. Always.

19. Having tattoos doesn’t make you a bad person. Wearing Crocs makes you a bad person. (Kidding! Seriously though, the Croc industry has to be stopped).

20. Call your mother.

21. Just when you lose your faith in humanity AGAIN, some genius sets a Taylor Swift song to an 80’s exercise video and BOOM. Restored. Again.

22. The laundry can wait. Playing “The Floor is Lava” with your children can’t.

23. Stop worrying about getting your hair wet and just swim.

24. Read more books.

25. If you’re on the subway and a pregnant woman gets on, give your seat to her. And your coffee. And your donut. And your newspaper. And $1,000. Growing humans is hard.

26. Speaking of which, love your body, no matter what shape or size. Your mom worked damn hard to make it.

27. Go ahead, have that second glass of wine.

28. We need to take better care of the Earth. Because the Earth produces coffee beans. Which produces coffee. Which is the only reason humans haven’t completely destroyed each other yet.

29. Travel more.

30. I don’t know the meaning of life, but I suspect it has something to do with stuffing a baby’s tootsies in your mouth.

31. Go ahead, have that third glass of wine.

32. You never see hamsters in the wild. This isn’t really a life lesson, I just think it’s super weird.

33. Teachers should be paid more, for a lot of reasons, but mostly because they have to pronounce all the ridiculous names, with all their ridiculous spellings, we give our kids nowadays.

34. Og head, hav htat forth bootle off wine.

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50 Shades of Grey’s Anatomy

Posted on June 6, 2015 | Leave a comment

I have to go to the lady parts doctor today. I know, I know. Ew. Gross. How dare I casually mention that I have a vagina! And on the Internet to boot, where children might see it! While on their way to whatever website 9-year-old’s are hanging out these days, which I’ll never find out because I am ancient!

But just be glad you only have to read about it. I’m the one who actually has to go and sit pants-less on hygienic demon paper for 37 minutes while Dr. Bony Fingers soaks her hands in dry ice before beginning the examination.

As I’m sure you can tell, I am not looking forward to this particular visit, fun though it is to have medieval-looking devices fiddling around down there. In fact, you could say I’m downright nervous.

Now normally, being nervous before a doctor’s appointment, any doctor’s appointment, is just par for the course for me. It’s one of my oh-so-amusing quirks that would make me a great sidekick in a really bad sitcom. Take going to the eye doctor. I dread going to the eye doctor. I always feel like I’m failing all their tests, because unlike all other doctor tests, the eye doctor INSISTS you participate.

“Can you read the first five lines of the chart, please?”

“Yeah…uh…E F P T O Z L P E D P um…another P…that’s a lot of P’s, man, um…C T …O?…or maybe U?…Z D um, I have no idea so let’s go with P again cause I’m assuming P’s are like the C’s of standardized tests in the eye world, huh?…no?…um…Q? another Q? um…P…I failed, didn’t I?”

And if that weren’t bad enough, then they shove that giant machine in your face and demand you make a series of high stakes, rapid-fire decisions that will quite literally affect how you see the world for the next year.

“Is this one clearer or that one?”

“Um…the first one?”

“OK. That one or that one?”

“I…I don’t know. The second one? Or, no! Wait! The first one! I think. STOP PRESSURING ME!”

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I am also not a big fan of going to the dentist.

“Have you been flossing?”

“…Yes?…”

“Every day?”

“…Sure…”

“Cause it doesn’t look like it.”

“Hey man, you don’t know my life!”

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But the lady parts doctor is its own unique kind of clinical hell. Let’s just put it this way, the biggest lie that has ever been told in the history of the world is “you may feel a little pinch.”

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But this time, the nervousness is slightly warranted. The reason I’m having Dr. Lady McParts kick the tires and check under the ‘ol hood is because my husband and I want to start trying to get pregnant again. One, because my husband wants another child and two, and much more importantly, I want a 9-month free pass to yell at everyone and eat cheeseburgers for breakfast.

But I’ve been having some symptoms. Of what, you ask? I have no idea. Nothing major, I’m optimistically assuming. Just a few things that made me raise one eyebrow and go “huh.” But I can tell you that according to Google, I am dying (because Google never looks at your symptoms and says “Holy crap, you are almost TOO healthy!”). However, I thought a second opinion was warranted before I drew up a will leaving all my vast estate holdings to my son.

“It says here that when Riker comes of age, he shall inherit all his mother’s back-issues of BUST magazine and her vintage ‘Drink More Wine’ t-shirt.”

I know it’s pointless to worry. But it’s also pointless to watch ‘Hart of Dixie’ on Netflix and I can’t stop doing that either. (Oh, Lemon Breeland, when will you learn?).

Because it’s not just my health at stake here, scary though that is. It affects the future of my entire family. Whenever something is amiss in that particular geographical region of your body and you are of a certain age, your first thought is “Oh god, what if I can’t have more children?” And generally, once that thought enters your head, you realize with horror just how much you truly wanted another baby. And how much your partner wants another baby. And how much your first-born needs a sibling so he doesn’t have to deal with those future nursing home “your mom bit a nurse again” phone calls alone.

And yes, we can adopt. And yes, we can be perfectly happy with just one child (some people don’t even get that). And yes, we can bring home a bunch of shelter dogs who can pitter-patter their little feet with the best of ‘em.

All things my husband and I have been saying as a mantra the past month.

And yet…

And yet.

Wish me luck.

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