Tag Archives: mom translator

All I need now are the mom jeans

Hey, you know when you’re sitting around the breakfast table, or maybe it’s Thanksgiving dinner, and everyone is talking and having a good time and someone mentions that great new movie they just saw and suddenly your mom goes…

“Oh yeah, it stars that good-lookin’ fella; Peter Dunphy.”

And everyone laughs. Oh, poor, silly mom. It’s Patrick Dempsey. Geez.

Only the thing is, it’s no laughing matter. Celebrity Name Dyslexia is a real disease. And it affects millions of parents each year. I should know. My own mother has suffered from it for years.

And then, just the other day, this happened with my husband:


Oh sure, I had a good chuckle at the expense of my husband. I mean, he’s older than me so it didn’t come as too much of a surprise that he would start suffering from CND waaaaay before I did. Besides, it was likely to never even affect me. I was too young. Too hip. I used to be on the entertainment beat for a newspaper, for crying out loud.

But then…then…(ragged breath)…this happened this morning:


Celebrity Name Dyslexia is real, kids. And it’s horrifying. So, let’s all do our part to raise awareness about this terrible disease that cripples the street cred of parents all over the world. Let’s organize a 5K or a charity concert. Maybe we could even get someone famous to host. Like, say, Selena Gonzalez.

Or Liam Hemmingway.

Or Liam’s big brother, Thor.

Or that singer Della who has that hit song “Hey.”

Putting on my mom jeans one leg at a time

I’m not sure when it started. And quite frankly, it took me by surprise. I mean, I had always prided myself on having no life and thus was able to keep up with such things. But somewhere between entering my 30’s and having a baby, I became out of touch with pop culture.

Granted, it’s not like I’m to the point where I’m wearing mom jeans and referring to Jake Gyllenhaal as Jack Gypsypants yet. But it is to the point where I’m getting a bit too comfortable with elastic bands and honestly don’t know if it’s Tatum Channing or Channing Tatum.

And it’s bothering me.

I turned the E! network on yesterday and there were three ads in a row for new reality shows starring people I had never heard of and whose only credentials for having their own reality show seemed to be that they wore more makeup than one would think would be possible on a human face (and this coming from a woman who still piles on the black eyeliner like it’s 1996). Worse yet, I’m so out of touch I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would want to watch the lives of an anorexic who had a kid with a dog’s name, a pregnant woman who said things like “he put the P in the V,” and someone who was dating John Cena (who I thought was Chantum Tanning until my husband corrected me).

If someone held a gun to my head and said they were going to pull the trigger unless I could tell them the difference between Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez (both names, by the way, I had to just Google to make sure I spelled them right), my closed casket funeral would be imminent.

I can’t keep up with all the superhero movie reboots, let alone all the movie remakes and sequels (Tanner Chumming is making “Magic Mike 2”? I haven’t even seen the first one yet!). I just found out what a “side chick” is and only then because I used context clues from Facebook. And trying to order a craft beer from an entire menu of craft beers gives me a panic attack.

When did bands start having 12 members, one of whom is always playing the ukulele? And when did they start having names that look like they were inspired by refrigerator magnetic poetry kits? What the hell is kimchi and kombucha and kale (and why is everyone taking pictures of them and posting them on Instagram)? And why is everyone only dying the lower two-thirds of their hair?


Look, I know what I sound like. But it’s not like I didn’t try to keep up. I did. I forced myself to watch MTV until an episode of “Teen Mom 2” made blood start spurting from my eyeballs. And I started following hipster Twitter accounts until my phone committed suicide after having to navigate through one too many selfies taken in front of a food truck. I even tried becoming friends with a 22-year-old, which unfortunately ended when she described the situation in Crimea as “so random” and I was forced to punch her in the throat.

So eventually I had to give up. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t keep up with what’s “cool” or whatever the kids are saying these days (“kimchi?”).

Must be the circle of life and junk, I suppose. Time for me to step aside and let the younger generation dictate the trends, even if those trends are stupid and involve wearing leggings as pants.

As for me, I’m just going to sit back and enjoy this new phase of my life, watching Cracker Taylor’s movies on my own terms.

Terms that will most likely include sweatpants and non-craft beer.