Spouse: Should we be insulted that Big Kid doesn't want us to attend the academic banquet?
Me: No, it's fine. It's not because he's ashamed of us. In fact, he's not ashamed of us, which is pretty amazing. I actually think he thinks we're pretty okay, all things considered.
Spouse: So?
Me: I'm 99% sure that he asked us to stay home because a friend's parents couldn't attend, and to encourage his friend to participate, he told the friend that we wouldn't be there, either.
Spouse: Yeah?
Me: No. I mean, yes, but no, I'm not 99% sure - I'm 100% sure. He didn't say anything to me, and I didn't ask, but I - I kind of just know.
Spouse: It is the sort of thing he is likely to do.
Me: Yes.
Spouse: He's a really, REALLY good kid.
Me: Yes.
So Big Kid attended his banquet on his own. I went to a work thing, and Spouse went to Little Kid's choir performance (which Spouse described as "awesomely awful," which made me really sad that I missed it). And, after my work thing, I headed Big Kid's way, and en route he called:
Big Kid: Yo, Mom.
Me: I'm on my way. It's 7:55 in my car, which means it is 7:50 in the real world [the clock in my car is five minutes fast, and we refuse to change it, because where's the fun in having the time of day inside the car match up to the time outside of it?], which means that I will get to you exactly at 8 pm, as per agreement.
Big Kid: Go, you!
Me: I know, right? They aren't trying to kick you out of the building, are they?
Big Kid: No, it's cool. The banquet just ended, and lots of people are still here. [Shouts out to a passing friend and laughs.]
Me: You're very chipper.
Big Kid: There was cake. And Ms. Skelton presented the Whiz Quiz team with a piñata, just because, and I partook in quite a bit of the candy that came out of it, so I'm on a major sugar high at the moment.
Me: Lucky me.
Big Kid: I know, right?
As I pulled into the parking lot, my phone rang again:
Me: I'm here. Where are you?
Big Kid: Still in the gym. I volunteered to help with tear-down.
Me: Okay, I'm turning around by the basketball courts.
Big Kid: I see you now. I wanted to let you know that I propped the door open for you, so you can just come inside once you have parked.
I looked up. Saw my child - smiling and waving at me from the doorway.
I walked across the parking lot. A female friend of Big Kid's called out, in that way that teenage girls are wont to do: "IS THAT YOUR MOM?"
Big Kid nodded.
I waited for the inevitable, "OMG, YOU LOOK JUST LIKE HER!" Instead: "Your son is going to be my wedding coordinator."
Me: Are you getting married imminently?
Big Kid: No. It's an inside joke.
Me: Ah. Well, good call. He would make a great wedding coordinator. Tremendous attention to detail, doesn't take no for an answer.
Both kids smiled.
I passed the remains of the cake - which I knew, without even having to look, must be white with white icing, because otherwise Big Kid wouldn't have accepted a slice. Big Kid only approves of vanilla-flavored things, with extra points awarded for the addition of a good buttercream.
Just like his mom.
I exchanged pleasantries with teachers and parents. Several said that they were sorry that neither Spouse nor I was able to attend, and one teacher who knew of Big Kid's frequent visits to Forgetful Town expressed concern that, perhaps, he had failed to give us the invitation. I blurted out, rather defensively, "Oh, he gave us the invitation, and we would have been happy to attend, but he asked us not to."
Big Kid's head snapped up. Teacher started to open her mouth to take Big Kid to task.
"No, no, it's totally okay. I'm pretty sure that he asked us to stay away because one of his friends was going to be parent-less for the evening, and he didn't want the friend to feel left out."
Big Kid's face split into a grin.
"Two friends, actually."
And then, the grin got, impossibly, wider.
"How did you know?"
He repeated the question when we got into the car. And I answered him.
"Because I made you. So I just do."
"Yeah, that makes sense."
On the ride home, Big Kid did an excellent job of safeguarding the slice of cake that he fetched for my future consumption.
"I knew you would want a piece."
"Vanilla, with buttercream."
"Exactly."
Personal Statement
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Back In the Day
Occasionally, I am reminded that I have been around for a (relatively) long time.
Like, when I look at the ring finger on my left hand, it occasionally registers in my brain that my wedding rings are set in yellow gold - not white gold or platinum. Spouse has asked multiple times if I would like an "upgrade," and each time I tell him no - he designed my rings himself, from scratch, so I am rather partial to the settings, and I am oddly partial to the yellow gold, because it pretty much screams, "I got engaged in 1995, when wedding rings typically were yellow."
In 1995, you didn't announce your engagement on Facebook or Instagram, because those things did not exist. Cell phones weren't a common thing, either, so when Not-Yet-Spouse made the rookie mistake of attempting to rendezvous with my best friend "under Big Tex" just prior to the proposal (we got engaged at the Texas State Fair on Texas/OU Weekend), and when we were unable to locate her in the ginormous crowd of people who also were attempting to connect with other people "under Big Tex" (surprise!), there was no calling her and triangulating to her location. Spouse just had to go forward without her, and she got the details of the proposal afterwards - when we both could get to a land line.
There weren't save-the-date cards, either, and engagement photos were optional. If you took them, they certainly didn't involve multiple changes of clothing, or chalkboards with cute sayings written on them. The late 1990's were remarkably chalkboard-free. No chalkboards at the reception, or mason jars, or tissue poms. Back then, you said it with flowers - lots of them. No photo booths or props, either: we were considered high-tech for putting disposable cameras on the tables. (Some of the house party and other law school friends did take it upon themselves to snap photos in the bathroom through the mirror - the first-ever experiment with mirror selfies, maybe? They also took close-up shots of the food - a precursor to the food porn shots that are now a dime a dozen on social media.)
Also, in 1996, cakes were CAKES - they weren't cake-shaped objects formed out of other baked goods, like cupcakes or macarons. Our first cupcake cake sighting was in 1999, and I remember saying to Spouse, "Wow, why didn't we think of that?" (Answer: Pinterest didn't exist back then.) My wedding cake was considered cutting-edge because it was asymmetrical and did not feature sugar roses. Spouse's groom's cake was considered cutting-edge because HE ACTUALLY HAD A GROOM'S CAKE. Believe it or not, groom's cakes were optional back then - and if you had one, it was chocolate, and it had strawberries on it. (Fortunately, Spouse really likes chocolate-covered strawberries.)
Then I got pregnant with our first, and the only options that I had for maternity wear were Motherhood Maternity or JC Penney's. (It was a BIG DEAL when Old Navy came out with maternity clothes shortly before we had the Little Kid - boy, did I go buck-wild on the ON Web site.) We opted not to learn Big Kid's gender prior to his birth, which meant our choices of layette items were "teddy bear" or "duck," in a palette of either pale yellow or mint green. (Had we known that he was a boy, our theme options would have expanded to include "truck," and pale blue would have been a third color option.) There was really only one place to buy baby stuff, and that was Babies R Us. I felt very avant garde for having ordered his bed linens (pale yellow, with some brights mixed in) online - how very forward-thinking of me.
Chevron hadn't been invented yet. Well, actually it had been invented, but we called it flamestitch, and it never occurred to us to use it in a kid's room. And it certainly never occurred to us to paint a kid's room gray, or stencil a monogram on the wall.
Photographers did not travel to your home with a shabby chic armchair, crocheted cocoon and knit stocking cap in tow, to capture images of your precious three day-old infant in his/her natural environment. There was one - ONE! - photographer who had figured out that parents might like to have their babies photographed at home, and he had also figured out how to position a small baby to look like the baby could hold up his or her own head. Unlike today's photogs, though, he insisted on photographing Propped Baby WHEN PROPPED BABY WAS ACTUALLY AWAKE. No sweet photos of a baby in a six foot-long stocking cap with hands squished under the face and eyes squeezed shut. Nope, had Propped Baby drifted off, Photog would have tickled Propped Baby's foot. Because, back then, we were kind of obsessed with capturing images of our children with their eyes open.
Cutting-Edge Baby Photog had two props - a blue blanket and a pink blanket - and zero lighting equipment. He used the natural lighting in your home, which means that all of the photos from our session were ridiculously dark - but, still, we thought that they were the coolest thing ever. And, as I am typing this, I am wondering if Friend Leslie and Friend Laura still display their photos taken at around the same time by the same guy. If they do have them out, I could immediately point them out to you based on (1) the blanket and (2) the awful lighting.
Big Kid did not have a smash cake on his first birthday. He had a smash slice. (Little Kid did have a smash cake, but it was an afterthought - I picked up a petit four while I was fetching the main cake, meaning THE TWO CAKES DIDN'T EVEN MATCH. Yes, Little Kid survived.) We did not recreate the cake-smash in a photographer's studio, and the only wardrobe change on either kid's birthday was impromptu (post-cake). When Big Kid turned one, your only "official first birthday photo" options were to have your child pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Picture People . . . or pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Sears Portrait Studio . . . or pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Penney's.
Today, when I look at photos of artfully arranged artisanal cheese buffets at wedding receptions, or professional pictures of infants and their older siblings cuddling in monogrammed-out-the-wazoo nurseries, I find myself initially wishing that those concepts existed back in the day. But then I run across a photo of me in my meringue-esque wedding dress (I only had one dress, by the way - no separate reception dress for dancing, just a hook on the back to bustle the train), or in a really unflattering navy pinstriped maternity pantsuit, and I think, "Wow, Spouse and I predate - well, basically everything trendy," and that makes me happy. And then I run across a photo of the boys in yawningly boring baby clothes, photographed in front of dated studio backgrounds (or, WORSE, PHOTOGRAPHED BY MOM OR DAD WITH A FILM CAMERA!), and I think, "I have a fourteen year-old and a nine year-old," and as scary as that thought is, it's also, really, amazingly cool.
And so I choose to wear my uncoolness like a badge of honor. A yellow gold one, festooned with mint green duckies.
Like, when I look at the ring finger on my left hand, it occasionally registers in my brain that my wedding rings are set in yellow gold - not white gold or platinum. Spouse has asked multiple times if I would like an "upgrade," and each time I tell him no - he designed my rings himself, from scratch, so I am rather partial to the settings, and I am oddly partial to the yellow gold, because it pretty much screams, "I got engaged in 1995, when wedding rings typically were yellow."
In 1995, you didn't announce your engagement on Facebook or Instagram, because those things did not exist. Cell phones weren't a common thing, either, so when Not-Yet-Spouse made the rookie mistake of attempting to rendezvous with my best friend "under Big Tex" just prior to the proposal (we got engaged at the Texas State Fair on Texas/OU Weekend), and when we were unable to locate her in the ginormous crowd of people who also were attempting to connect with other people "under Big Tex" (surprise!), there was no calling her and triangulating to her location. Spouse just had to go forward without her, and she got the details of the proposal afterwards - when we both could get to a land line.
There weren't save-the-date cards, either, and engagement photos were optional. If you took them, they certainly didn't involve multiple changes of clothing, or chalkboards with cute sayings written on them. The late 1990's were remarkably chalkboard-free. No chalkboards at the reception, or mason jars, or tissue poms. Back then, you said it with flowers - lots of them. No photo booths or props, either: we were considered high-tech for putting disposable cameras on the tables. (Some of the house party and other law school friends did take it upon themselves to snap photos in the bathroom through the mirror - the first-ever experiment with mirror selfies, maybe? They also took close-up shots of the food - a precursor to the food porn shots that are now a dime a dozen on social media.)
Also, in 1996, cakes were CAKES - they weren't cake-shaped objects formed out of other baked goods, like cupcakes or macarons. Our first cupcake cake sighting was in 1999, and I remember saying to Spouse, "Wow, why didn't we think of that?" (Answer: Pinterest didn't exist back then.) My wedding cake was considered cutting-edge because it was asymmetrical and did not feature sugar roses. Spouse's groom's cake was considered cutting-edge because HE ACTUALLY HAD A GROOM'S CAKE. Believe it or not, groom's cakes were optional back then - and if you had one, it was chocolate, and it had strawberries on it. (Fortunately, Spouse really likes chocolate-covered strawberries.)
Then I got pregnant with our first, and the only options that I had for maternity wear were Motherhood Maternity or JC Penney's. (It was a BIG DEAL when Old Navy came out with maternity clothes shortly before we had the Little Kid - boy, did I go buck-wild on the ON Web site.) We opted not to learn Big Kid's gender prior to his birth, which meant our choices of layette items were "teddy bear" or "duck," in a palette of either pale yellow or mint green. (Had we known that he was a boy, our theme options would have expanded to include "truck," and pale blue would have been a third color option.) There was really only one place to buy baby stuff, and that was Babies R Us. I felt very avant garde for having ordered his bed linens (pale yellow, with some brights mixed in) online - how very forward-thinking of me.
Chevron hadn't been invented yet. Well, actually it had been invented, but we called it flamestitch, and it never occurred to us to use it in a kid's room. And it certainly never occurred to us to paint a kid's room gray, or stencil a monogram on the wall.
Photographers did not travel to your home with a shabby chic armchair, crocheted cocoon and knit stocking cap in tow, to capture images of your precious three day-old infant in his/her natural environment. There was one - ONE! - photographer who had figured out that parents might like to have their babies photographed at home, and he had also figured out how to position a small baby to look like the baby could hold up his or her own head. Unlike today's photogs, though, he insisted on photographing Propped Baby WHEN PROPPED BABY WAS ACTUALLY AWAKE. No sweet photos of a baby in a six foot-long stocking cap with hands squished under the face and eyes squeezed shut. Nope, had Propped Baby drifted off, Photog would have tickled Propped Baby's foot. Because, back then, we were kind of obsessed with capturing images of our children with their eyes open.
Cutting-Edge Baby Photog had two props - a blue blanket and a pink blanket - and zero lighting equipment. He used the natural lighting in your home, which means that all of the photos from our session were ridiculously dark - but, still, we thought that they were the coolest thing ever. And, as I am typing this, I am wondering if Friend Leslie and Friend Laura still display their photos taken at around the same time by the same guy. If they do have them out, I could immediately point them out to you based on (1) the blanket and (2) the awful lighting.
Big Kid did not have a smash cake on his first birthday. He had a smash slice. (Little Kid did have a smash cake, but it was an afterthought - I picked up a petit four while I was fetching the main cake, meaning THE TWO CAKES DIDN'T EVEN MATCH. Yes, Little Kid survived.) We did not recreate the cake-smash in a photographer's studio, and the only wardrobe change on either kid's birthday was impromptu (post-cake). When Big Kid turned one, your only "official first birthday photo" options were to have your child pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Picture People . . . or pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Sears Portrait Studio . . . or pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Penney's.
Today, when I look at photos of artfully arranged artisanal cheese buffets at wedding receptions, or professional pictures of infants and their older siblings cuddling in monogrammed-out-the-wazoo nurseries, I find myself initially wishing that those concepts existed back in the day. But then I run across a photo of me in my meringue-esque wedding dress (I only had one dress, by the way - no separate reception dress for dancing, just a hook on the back to bustle the train), or in a really unflattering navy pinstriped maternity pantsuit, and I think, "Wow, Spouse and I predate - well, basically everything trendy," and that makes me happy. And then I run across a photo of the boys in yawningly boring baby clothes, photographed in front of dated studio backgrounds (or, WORSE, PHOTOGRAPHED BY MOM OR DAD WITH A FILM CAMERA!), and I think, "I have a fourteen year-old and a nine year-old," and as scary as that thought is, it's also, really, amazingly cool.
And so I choose to wear my uncoolness like a badge of honor. A yellow gold one, festooned with mint green duckies.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Sample Conversation Between Spouse and Me
[Note: When I was president of Junior Woman's Club, "starburst" was our exec committee's safe word. When people started to go off on tangents, one could simply say, "starburst," or "we're starbursting," and it was a signal to get back on-message.
Another note: Spouse frequently accuses me of starbursting when I am (allegedly) cleaning the house. Basically, if I'm doing a task that he doesn't deem mission-critical, I'm either "fiddling while Rome burns" or "rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic," depending on what metaphor is his favorite that week.]
So I've been thinking about your disdain for starbursting, and I think that it's partially misguided.
Do tell.
I submit that there are three types of starbursting. The first type of starbursting I shall categorize as "mission-critical starbursting." Example: my goal is to eradicate the pile of clothing on the blanket chest on my side of the bed. So I ask myself: why is the pile there? Partly because I have a mental block about hanging up clothes when I get home from work, and partly because my closet is currently disorganized, and every time I think about sorting through the pile I think, "I need to organize the closet before I hang up those things." Ergo, organizing the closet is an appropriate precursor to eradicating the clothes pile, and in fact really ought to be considered a necessary part of the clothes pile eradication process. Because, in the absence of an organized closet, the clothes pile is likely to return.
I concede this point.
A second and distinct type of starbursting I shall refer to as "opportunistic starbursting." Example: last night I went in search of that tablecloth that I was thinking of using for Keno.
I remember.
And then I decided that I would look for paper plates and napkins for the Woman's Club notebook exchange while I was at it, and in the process of looking for all of the above I realized that the sideboard was in a state of disarray, and it really needed to be organized, and, on the theory that to keep a house within certain organizational tolerances you need to take on several "done in a day" projects per month, I decided that I needed to reorganize the sideboard, because like every other storage piece in the house it needs to be reorganized on an occasional basis, and there wouldn't be a better time than right then, while I was thinking about it. So I cleaned out the sideboard and, not only did I find the tablecloth, paper plates and napkins, but I found a bunch of other paper goods that I can use over the summer, so taking the time to clean out the sideboard both facilitated the consumption of consumable goods that were already taking up space and eliminated the need to spend money on similar goods. Thus, I submit that opportunistic starbursting can be socially useful.
I concede this point as well.
So that leaves "procrastination starbursting." Like when I go to clean out a desk drawer, and find a picture of one of the kids from the spring of 2013, and remember that I haven't printed the Shutterfly album for the spring of 2013 because I need to upload those pictures from Memorial Day, so I decide to upload the pictures while I am thinking about it, and when I do upload the pictures, there is a banner ad for 30% off of photo albums on the Shutterfly site, so I decide to go ahead and complete and order the book, but then I remember that I should always link to Shutterfly through Upromise because the kids earn money for college that way, and when I go to Upromise I see that Lands' End is offering extra savings this week, so I buy the kids swimsuits for summer vacation.
Right.
And then I spend two hours on Travelocity looking at hotel options for summer vacation.
Yup.
When it's only February.
Mmm-hmm.
And I never get around to finishing the drawer.
Yup, again.
And then you come in and see the big pile of stuff that I have taken out of the drawer, spread out on the bed and only semi-sorted, and you're really tired, so while I'm in the bathroom you just shove everything on the floor.
Correct.
And then I yell at you for not giving me adequate time to complete tasks.
Yes.
Okay, I agree that it totally sucks when I do that, and I should stop.
Monday, May 19, 2014
#nohelicopterneeded, Monday Edition
Sometimes I think I want to be a helicopter parent. Scratch that: I don't want the actual job of a helicopter parent, but it might be nice to be nominated.
This is as close as I get:
Big Kid: Mom, I need you to help me remember what I did in sixth and seventh grade.
Me: Huh? [It was really early in the morning.]
Big Kid: Academically. At the academic banquet, when they announce the eighth graders, they summarize all of our achievements over the last three years.
Me: Well, you won some UIL awards. I don't remember what they were, because you didn't actually let us attend. We just picked you up at the end of the day.
Big Kid: Got those.
Me: And Whiz Quiz. You actually let me go to those - for the first two years.
Big Kid: Already on my list.
Me: You were on the Cardboard Boat Regatta team in sixth grade. I recall making plans to take your brother to the park to watch your team compete, and you told me under no uncertain terms that we were not welcome as spectators.
Big Kid [ignoring my editorial comment]: Ooh, good - I had forgotten about that one.
Me: And I have anecdotal evidence that you placed third in the Spelling Bee, but that was -
Big Kid: - this year, right. I have that down for eighth grade, and, of course, vice-president of National Junior Honor Society.
Me: Wait, what?
Big Kid: I'm vice-president of National Junior Honor Society.
Me: Did I know about this?
Big Kid: Probably not. I don't recall discussing it. But you know about it now.
Me: And this banquet, why didn't I know about that?
Big Kid: Oh, it's at 6 pm on the 28th.
Me: Of course. Figures, because I just made plans at 6 pm on the 28th, but I am happy to change -
Big Kid: No worries. I only RSVP'd for one. It's $30 a head for adult guests, which is kind of ridiculous, and it's fun to go without parents, and sit with the teachers when they're not actually on duty. So if you can just arrange to get me there, we're good.
I should be happy, right? Right?
This is as close as I get:
Big Kid: Mom, I need you to help me remember what I did in sixth and seventh grade.
Me: Huh? [It was really early in the morning.]
Big Kid: Academically. At the academic banquet, when they announce the eighth graders, they summarize all of our achievements over the last three years.
Me: Well, you won some UIL awards. I don't remember what they were, because you didn't actually let us attend. We just picked you up at the end of the day.
Big Kid: Got those.
Me: And Whiz Quiz. You actually let me go to those - for the first two years.
Big Kid: Already on my list.
Me: You were on the Cardboard Boat Regatta team in sixth grade. I recall making plans to take your brother to the park to watch your team compete, and you told me under no uncertain terms that we were not welcome as spectators.
Big Kid [ignoring my editorial comment]: Ooh, good - I had forgotten about that one.
Me: And I have anecdotal evidence that you placed third in the Spelling Bee, but that was -
Big Kid: - this year, right. I have that down for eighth grade, and, of course, vice-president of National Junior Honor Society.
Me: Wait, what?
Big Kid: I'm vice-president of National Junior Honor Society.
Me: Did I know about this?
Big Kid: Probably not. I don't recall discussing it. But you know about it now.
Me: And this banquet, why didn't I know about that?
Big Kid: Oh, it's at 6 pm on the 28th.
Me: Of course. Figures, because I just made plans at 6 pm on the 28th, but I am happy to change -
Big Kid: No worries. I only RSVP'd for one. It's $30 a head for adult guests, which is kind of ridiculous, and it's fun to go without parents, and sit with the teachers when they're not actually on duty. So if you can just arrange to get me there, we're good.
I should be happy, right? Right?
Monday, May 12, 2014
Things That Made Me Feel Old This Week
[An occasional series inspired by my 44th birthday and my recent experience accompanying my college roommate while she put down a deposit on her son's dorm room.]
Caught the tail end of "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel" and:
Found myself empathizing with some of the aging characters' storylines.
Remembered reading that Pierce Brosnan will be one of the aging characters in the sequel.
Attempted to come to terms with the fact that Pierce Brosnan now plays elderly dudes.
Realized that it's Richard Gere, not Pierce Brosnan, who is appearing in the sequel.
Felt really old for confusing Richard Gere and Pierce Brosnan, which is something my mother might do.
Attempted to come to terms with the fact that Richard Gere now plays elderly dudes.
IMDB'd Richard Gere - yep, he turns 65 in August.
Acknowledged that I have a small crush on Dev Patel.
Realized that I am old enough to be Dev Patel's mother without said birth being scandalous.
Remembered that I first noticed that Dev Patel was oddly cute, not during "Slumdog Millionaire" or an episode of "Newsroom," BUT WHILE WATCHING "THE LAST AIRBENDER" MOVIE WITH MY CHILDREN.
(So that last one didn't make me feel old so much as it made me feel pervy.)
Sunday, May 11, 2014
A Kid Born in 2004 Reviews "Dumbo"
Spouse has this weird, nostalgic thing for Disney cartoons. Like, he LOVES, loves, LURVES "The Jungle Book," which I only tolerate because of Louis Prima's King Louis orangutan character. ("I'm the king of the swingers, the jungle VIP . . . .")
Because I have this weird, nostalgic thing for Louis Prima. But that's (maybe) the subject of a future post.
Spouse holds "Dumbo" in roughly the same esteem as "Jungle Book," so when the elephant movie came on the Disney Channel on Mother's Day, he insisted on making the Little Kid and me watch it.
Umm, yaaaaaaaaay. Actually, it was awesome, because the Little Kid - not unlike the Big Kid before him - lives in my head, and shares my thoughts, but he can get away with voicing those thoughts in ways that I cannot. (I mean, I DO voice them, and Spouse rolls his eyes - but then one of the kids says the EXACT SAME THING, COMPLETELY UNPROMPTED, and suddenly I'm on my feet, all triumphant-like, pointing at whichever kid it is and shouting, "BOOM! TOLD YA!")
So the film begins, and I'm sort of paying attention, because I find the stork character's canned birth announcement speech semi-amusing. The Little Kid is glued to whatever is on the screen of his tablet computer, and is therefore paying zero attention, until Dumbo's ears unfurl. And then:
Ooooh, I get it. The other female elephants are freaking out because they're Asian elephants, and Mrs. Jumbo is an Asian elephant, too, but her baby has HUGE EARS, so the baby's dad is probably an African elephant, and they think that's scandalous.
Spouse: [Opens and closes mouth like a fish. For what won't be the last time.]
Me [in my head]: YES! ELEPHANT JERRY SPRINGER! This show just got marginally more interesting!
Spouse: Ohhhhhhkay, I'll admit I never thought about it like THAT before, but, yes, you're right that African elephants do have larger ears . . . .
Significantly larger ears, Dad.
Me [out loud this time]: Yes, and that would explain why the other female elephants are being so hateful to Mrs. Jumbo, because they are judgmental bigots who enjoy casting stones, which, BY THE WAY, IS THE MAIN REASON THAT I HAVE ALWAYS HATED THIS MOVIE.
Spouse: Huh?
Me: YES, I HAVE ALWAYS HATED THIS MOVIE, BECAUSE IT SPOTLIGHTS EVERYTHING THAT IS DARK AND UGLY ABOUT HOW WOMEN TREAT OTHER WOMEN.
Spouse: Yeah, okay, I think you're reading too much into it . . . .
Me: Nope, it's "Mean Girls," but with elephants, and an unfunny script.
After I pin Spouse's ears back (small pun intended), minutes pass without anyone saying anything. And then:
I'm sorry - are the elephant and the mouse DRUNK?
Spouse: Umm, a little bit.
But Dumbo's a KID. A baby, really. AND BABIES SHOULDN'T DRINK.
Spouse: They didn't mean to get drunk.
Alcohol shouldn't be where kids can drink it ACCIDENTALLY. And they're making it out like it's funny that he's drunk, and a kid being drunk ISN'T FUNNY.
Back from commercial break, and in come the crows:
Okay, how is this not racist?
I think it's a safe bet that we won't be watching "Dumbo" again in the near future.
Because I have this weird, nostalgic thing for Louis Prima. But that's (maybe) the subject of a future post.
Spouse holds "Dumbo" in roughly the same esteem as "Jungle Book," so when the elephant movie came on the Disney Channel on Mother's Day, he insisted on making the Little Kid and me watch it.
Umm, yaaaaaaaaay. Actually, it was awesome, because the Little Kid - not unlike the Big Kid before him - lives in my head, and shares my thoughts, but he can get away with voicing those thoughts in ways that I cannot. (I mean, I DO voice them, and Spouse rolls his eyes - but then one of the kids says the EXACT SAME THING, COMPLETELY UNPROMPTED, and suddenly I'm on my feet, all triumphant-like, pointing at whichever kid it is and shouting, "BOOM! TOLD YA!")
So the film begins, and I'm sort of paying attention, because I find the stork character's canned birth announcement speech semi-amusing. The Little Kid is glued to whatever is on the screen of his tablet computer, and is therefore paying zero attention, until Dumbo's ears unfurl. And then:
Ooooh, I get it. The other female elephants are freaking out because they're Asian elephants, and Mrs. Jumbo is an Asian elephant, too, but her baby has HUGE EARS, so the baby's dad is probably an African elephant, and they think that's scandalous.
Spouse: [Opens and closes mouth like a fish. For what won't be the last time.]
Me [in my head]: YES! ELEPHANT JERRY SPRINGER! This show just got marginally more interesting!
Spouse: Ohhhhhhkay, I'll admit I never thought about it like THAT before, but, yes, you're right that African elephants do have larger ears . . . .
Significantly larger ears, Dad.
Me [out loud this time]: Yes, and that would explain why the other female elephants are being so hateful to Mrs. Jumbo, because they are judgmental bigots who enjoy casting stones, which, BY THE WAY, IS THE MAIN REASON THAT I HAVE ALWAYS HATED THIS MOVIE.
Spouse: Huh?
Me: YES, I HAVE ALWAYS HATED THIS MOVIE, BECAUSE IT SPOTLIGHTS EVERYTHING THAT IS DARK AND UGLY ABOUT HOW WOMEN TREAT OTHER WOMEN.
Spouse: Yeah, okay, I think you're reading too much into it . . . .
Me: Nope, it's "Mean Girls," but with elephants, and an unfunny script.
After I pin Spouse's ears back (small pun intended), minutes pass without anyone saying anything. And then:
I'm sorry - are the elephant and the mouse DRUNK?
Spouse: Umm, a little bit.
But Dumbo's a KID. A baby, really. AND BABIES SHOULDN'T DRINK.
Spouse: They didn't mean to get drunk.
Alcohol shouldn't be where kids can drink it ACCIDENTALLY. And they're making it out like it's funny that he's drunk, and a kid being drunk ISN'T FUNNY.
Back from commercial break, and in come the crows:
Okay, how is this not racist?
I think it's a safe bet that we won't be watching "Dumbo" again in the near future.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Adventures of a Teenaged Boy Stylist, Continued
So the Hollister trip wasn't HORRIBLE. Big Kid was absolutely correct when he warned me that "Hollister smells exactly like my Axe body spray." (The reason that he knows this is that girls frequently come up to him and tell him that he "smells like Hollister.")
The difference is, Hollister actually pumps the brakes on the scent application, whereas a teenaged boy tends to pour it on. The scent is subtle - while you are in the store. Then, when you leave, it follows, and you find yourself wondering: is it clinging to my clothes? To the mucus linings of my nasal passages? Or both? Whatever, it's insidious. But please let it be in my nose, because if it's on my clothes, people may mistakenly think that I WANT TO SMELL THIS WAY.
But let's talk about the clothes. He approved of the dip-dye tee above, which was my favorite. Crew neckline: less d-baggish than a vee. And you can't go wrong with ombre. Reminds me of a Polo tee that he had as a kid, but I'm going to stop thinking about that now, because I'm really trying to yada yada over and through the fact that he is no longer six.
He also insisted on this one. Umm, okay. It's a vee, but it's a shallow vee. We aren't veering into Simon Cowell, chest hair-framing territory. And I think that the shirt would look less d-baggish if the person wearing it wasn't standing LIKE THAT.
Moving on.
Yay, back to a crewneck. Good colors on him. Momma likes.
Well, it's a hoodie, but it's not a baggy hoodie that swallows him, and it's not goth-hued. Bright and sunny. Definitely surfer-ish, and the Big Kid is surfer-ish (actually factually, he's got skills on a short board).
Okay, fairly sure that my high school boyfriend had a substantially similar shirt in 1986. And DEFINITELY sure that he posed in it like this. Like, "Yes, my shirt is a bit tight. That's intentional. Because I want you to notice the breadth of my shoulders and the tone of my arms. Why, yes, I do play tennis."
But enough about THAT guy (who was actually perfectly lovely, and not at all d-baggish).
Big Kid definitely had a version of this shirt when he was, like, three. But instead of a - what is that supposed to be, a seagull? - it had a cute little bicycle embroidered on it. Okay, I'm veering towards sentimentality again. Where's that Axe stench when you need it? That stuff is like smelling salts. I could totally blame it for any tears that may happen to be forming in my eyes.
We got shirts. Swim trunks eluded us, which means [sigh] another trip to a mall, because I don't think that my "teenaged boy stylist" skills encompass guessing at swimwear sizing. He did get athletic shoes, after MUCH wailing and gnashing of teeth, and he also got Vans. Because Little Kid was tagging along, he, too, acquired athletic shoes and Vans - and rash guards, t-shirts and shorts. So we're stylish. And not naked. Well, unless we want to be. (We're boys, so we seem to want to be naked, a lot.)
Job
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
High-Level Phone Conference Between Parents of Teenaged Son
Spouse: I'm thinking of taking the Big Kid to Sears after school.
Me: Okay, reason?
Spouse: He's outgrown his shoes. Again. And Sears is having a BOGO sale.
Me: Brands?
Spouse: Athletic brands. You know, like New Balance and stuff. [Editor's note: IT'S ALWAYS NEW BALANCE WITH SPOUSE. HE DRANK THE KOOL-AID, AND IT IS SOMEHOW STILL SLOSHING AROUND IN HIS BELLY.]
Me: [Rolling my eyes as Big Kid's proxy.] You know he hates New Balance. When he says he needs shoes, he means Vans, or Converse. Something canvas with zero arch support.
Spouse: He can get those, too. But he needs athletic shoes.
Me: By the way, I still have multiple pairs of New Balance in my car from Christmas. The ones that he rejected and you still haven't sent back. [Yes, I was proving a point.]
Spouse: He outgrew them before he got them.
Me: Yes, and he rejected the CONCEPT of them before he got them, too. Lucky for him, his feet grow every third day. But Sears is a good idea, if you wait for me to get home first. If we take him to [name of mall that we rarely go to because we are dyed-in-the-wool West Side-ers whose car naturally points TO THE WEST, and "other mall" is TO THE SOUTH - and .8 miles farther away], the Sears there has Lands' End, and he can try on swimsuits, because he needs swimsuits that aren't competition Speedos and can be worn in polite company, and he likes Lands' End because they have an actual functional drawstring. [Parents of older, specifically male children: am I the only one who feels momentarily smug when I can pull a personal detail like this out of my hindquarters? See, World, I am a fully engaged parent - I KNOW HIS SWIMSUIT DRAWSTRING PREFERENCE.]
Spouse: Good point.
Me: And it also has a Hollister, and he recently asked for tees without ironic-and/or-nerdy logos on them, specifically striped ones, specifically Mossimo or Hollister [MORE POINTS TO MOM FOR PAYING ATTENTION!], and Hollister is having a 50%-off online sale through this evening, with free shipping. So if he could try stuff on in the store, then it would avoid me having to measure him, WHICH HE HATES, and I can place the order when we get back.
Spouse: Perfect. Wait, what's Hollister?
Me: It's the "Southern California lifestyle brand" of Abercrombie & Fitch.
Spouse: UGH. Seriously?
Me: Okay, on your son's behalf, I would like to point out that he only recently decided that, maybe, he wanted to start dressing like a d-bag. And most of his friends have been demanding to look like d-bags since they turned ten.
Spouse: GOOD POINT. [Name of Big Kid's friend] has been dressing like one since he was FIVE.
Me: Exactly. So we should give ourselves a pat on the back for making it to 14 1/2, and we should maybe indulge him a little bit.
Spouse: Agreed.
Me: Plus, the fact that he thinks that Mossimo - a Target brand - and Hollister are on par with one another is some indication that he is still somewhat adorably clueless. That, or further evidence that Target is run by marketing geniuses.
Spouse: Well, we knew THAT.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Fan Girl (OT)
You may be obsessed with your NCAA pool if:
You spend hours considering probability statistics and weighing intangibles before completing your bracket.
You roll your eyes when people tell you that they made their selections because of [insert one] team mascots, uniform colors or sentimentality. You do not recognize sentimentality. This year, you have your own alma mater losing in Round 3. To quote The Godfather, it's not personal - it's strictly business. You did pick your alma mater to win Round 2, and when they won the game at the buzzer, you leapt into the air with excitement, a little bit because your team won, but a lot bit because YOUR BRACKETED TEAM WON.
You also picked Stanford to win in Round 2. You just returned from a college tour of Stanford with your future-engineer-or-computer-scientist son. When a coworker informs you that he picked Stanford because your son thinks he wants to go there, you say, "Seriously? I didn't pick Stanford because my son thinks he wants to go there. I picked Stanford because on paper they seemed poised to upset."
You refused to go to bed until the San Diego State game concluded at oh-dark-thirty.
When people ask how you did in the "first" (meaning "second") round, you (at least, from their perspective) over-answer the question: "28 for 32, but I had two of my four losers going out in the next round, so I have 14 of my 16, 7 out of my 8 and all of my final four."
You consider texting the associate who is in charge of your office pool to find out if you are still tied with your law partner for first, or if you now have the lead to yourself.
You spend hours considering probability statistics and weighing intangibles before completing your bracket.
You roll your eyes when people tell you that they made their selections because of [insert one] team mascots, uniform colors or sentimentality. You do not recognize sentimentality. This year, you have your own alma mater losing in Round 3. To quote The Godfather, it's not personal - it's strictly business. You did pick your alma mater to win Round 2, and when they won the game at the buzzer, you leapt into the air with excitement, a little bit because your team won, but a lot bit because YOUR BRACKETED TEAM WON.
You also picked Stanford to win in Round 2. You just returned from a college tour of Stanford with your future-engineer-or-computer-scientist son. When a coworker informs you that he picked Stanford because your son thinks he wants to go there, you say, "Seriously? I didn't pick Stanford because my son thinks he wants to go there. I picked Stanford because on paper they seemed poised to upset."
You refused to go to bed until the San Diego State game concluded at oh-dark-thirty.
When people ask how you did in the "first" (meaning "second") round, you (at least, from their perspective) over-answer the question: "28 for 32, but I had two of my four losers going out in the next round, so I have 14 of my 16, 7 out of my 8 and all of my final four."
You consider texting the associate who is in charge of your office pool to find out if you are still tied with your law partner for first, or if you now have the lead to yourself.
Fan Girl (Second Half)
You might be obsessed with the NCAA tournament if:
You remember being your son's age and weeping openly over the outcome of a game featuring teams from two colleges that your parents never attended, and that you would never attend, either.
You stayed on your college campus over Spring Break because March Madness was coming to town. (This was before you got involved in pools, which means that for the most part you were able to just chill in the stands and root for a series of "good games," with no dog in the fight.)
Your children don't really bother trying to engage you in conversation the week of the tourney.
You once attempted to foster interest in the tournament among said children by creating a bingo game featuring common phrases like "bubble team," "road warriors," "cupcake schedule" and other clichés like "player on the bench with towel obscuring his face" and "cheerleader with single tear smearing temporary tattoo on cheek."
You miss Dick Vitale but consider Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith an acceptable consolation prize (because you grew up in H-Town, AND IT'S LIKE THEY'RE GETTING THE BAND BACK TOGETHER!).
You start a conference call during tourney week by thanking the (all-male) participants for dialing in and temporarily diverting their attention from the CBS or Turner station of their respective choices.
You are incredulous when one of said male participants does not understand the comment. ("Um, CBS, TBS, TNT, truTV? It's, like, March?")
You correct people when they refer to the 64-team round as the "first" round. (Technically, play-ins are round 1, distinct from the round of 64, which is round 2.)
You debate the relative merits of the nicknames "Elite Eight" (ALLITERATIVE!) and "Great Eight" (RHYMING!).
You think that, just possibly, you have the eerie power to control young men's minds through your television - like, when SFA's Thomas Walkup missed one of his free throws, allowing VCU the opportunity to win with a three-pointer and avoid overtime, and (in your outside voice, directed to the TV) you instructed (1) VCU's player to miss his shot by a certain distance and (2) the Jacks to get the rebound and run out the clock. WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT TRANSPIRED. (Why did you pick SFA, a twelve-seed, over a five-seed? Because they are from Texas, and so are you? NO. Because you knew that they were entering the tournament riding the momentum of the nation's second-longest winning streak. Duh. It was a safe and entirely rational bet.)
You devote three consecutive blog posts to your obsession with "the rock."
You remember being your son's age and weeping openly over the outcome of a game featuring teams from two colleges that your parents never attended, and that you would never attend, either.
You stayed on your college campus over Spring Break because March Madness was coming to town. (This was before you got involved in pools, which means that for the most part you were able to just chill in the stands and root for a series of "good games," with no dog in the fight.)
Your children don't really bother trying to engage you in conversation the week of the tourney.
You once attempted to foster interest in the tournament among said children by creating a bingo game featuring common phrases like "bubble team," "road warriors," "cupcake schedule" and other clichés like "player on the bench with towel obscuring his face" and "cheerleader with single tear smearing temporary tattoo on cheek."
You miss Dick Vitale but consider Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith an acceptable consolation prize (because you grew up in H-Town, AND IT'S LIKE THEY'RE GETTING THE BAND BACK TOGETHER!).
You start a conference call during tourney week by thanking the (all-male) participants for dialing in and temporarily diverting their attention from the CBS or Turner station of their respective choices.
You are incredulous when one of said male participants does not understand the comment. ("Um, CBS, TBS, TNT, truTV? It's, like, March?")
You correct people when they refer to the 64-team round as the "first" round. (Technically, play-ins are round 1, distinct from the round of 64, which is round 2.)
You debate the relative merits of the nicknames "Elite Eight" (ALLITERATIVE!) and "Great Eight" (RHYMING!).
You think that, just possibly, you have the eerie power to control young men's minds through your television - like, when SFA's Thomas Walkup missed one of his free throws, allowing VCU the opportunity to win with a three-pointer and avoid overtime, and (in your outside voice, directed to the TV) you instructed (1) VCU's player to miss his shot by a certain distance and (2) the Jacks to get the rebound and run out the clock. WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT TRANSPIRED. (Why did you pick SFA, a twelve-seed, over a five-seed? Because they are from Texas, and so are you? NO. Because you knew that they were entering the tournament riding the momentum of the nation's second-longest winning streak. Duh. It was a safe and entirely rational bet.)
You devote three consecutive blog posts to your obsession with "the rock."
Friday, March 21, 2014
Fan Girl (First Half)
You might be obsessed with basketball if:
You almost broke up with your high school/sorta-on-and-off-in-college boyfriend over a bet (for bragging rights, not money) riding on the outcome of the 1988 NBA Eastern Conference finals. (You said you liked the Pistons' chances to beat the Celtics. He basically patted you on the head, in front of his friends, and told you that you were cute. The Pistons went on to play the Lakers in the NBA finals, losing 4 games to 3. He had the audacity to suggest that you got lucky. You got angry, and RIGHT THEN, ON THE DAY OF THE 1988 FINALS, made a bet with him that the Pistons would not only make it to the finals in 1989, but that they would win. Which they did. He used the word "lucky" again. You predicted that the Pistons would go back to back. WHICH THEY DID. He stopped talking to you about basketball after that.)
While your friends were fantasizing about marrying a Van Halen, or a member of Duran Duran, you imagined yourself being married to Bill Laimbeer (who, okay, was already married to someone else, but, remember, this was happening in your imagination), sitting courtside and attending Republican fundraisers. The fact that you lived in Texas and had never actually been to Detroit did not strike you as a particular obstacle. (Why was a girl in Texas cheering for Detroit? Um, because BILL LAIMBEER, ISAIAH THOMAS, DENNIS RODMAN, JOHN SALLEY, MARK AGUIRRE, JOE DUMARS, ADRIAN DANTLEY, RICK MAHORN AND DO I NEED TO GO ON? LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE.)
You count among the happiest days of your life (in chronological order): Game 7 of the 1994 NBA finals (Rockets over Knicks, four games to three); Valentine's Day 1995 (first official Valentine's Day with your spouse AND the day that Portland traded Clyde Drexler to the Rockets); Game 4 of the 1995 NBA finals (Rockets over Magic in a shut-out; CLYDE CAME HOME AND GOT HIS RING!); the day you got engaged; that magical day in August 1996 when Charles Barkley got traded to Houston (even though it meant losing four players, including Sam Cassell and Robert Horry); your wedding two months later; and blah, blah, the day you first held your firstborn, blah, blah.
You count among the worst days of your life (1) the day that Phi Slama Jama lost a heartbreaker to the Wolfpack in the 1983 NCAA finals (DAMN YOU, LORENZO CHARLES!), (2) the day that Clyde the Glide had to pack up and move to Oregon because Houston used their first pick on Ralph Sampson (okay, you later admitted that it was the right choice, but at the time, a stab in the heart) and (3) EVERY TIME THE ROCKETS PLAYED THE SUNS, because, dang it, you wanted to like Charles Barkley so badly, BUT HE WAS THE ENEMY.
You consider the gift of an autographed basketball from your husband a better and far more romantic gift than jewelry, candy and flowers.
You named your first "married-couple-child-substitute pet" Barkley - specifically, Charles Wade Barkley McGlinchey. The name ended up suiting him, as he matured into a round mound (of rebound and otherwise) and has never been much of a role model. A year later, on the first anniversary of his "gotcha" day, you turned on morning TV and learned that YOU HAD ADOPTED YOUR BARKLEY ON THE REAL BARKLEY'S ACTUAL BIRTHDAY. (Karma, baby.)
You have broken more than one TV remote flinging it in the direction of a set when a game was not breaking your way. (You have never broken a TV before, because even at your worst you know to aim the remote off to the side. Otherwise, you have a broken heart and a broken TV, which is the definition of insult added to injury.)
You once left your office for lunch, upon discovering that the Knicks were staying at a hotel immediately adjacent to your building, and went "trolling for John Starks." (What were you going to do when you found him? Undetermined. But you were on record as detesting John Starks.)
You become a stark raving lunatic every March. (More on that later.)
You almost broke up with your high school/sorta-on-and-off-in-college boyfriend over a bet (for bragging rights, not money) riding on the outcome of the 1988 NBA Eastern Conference finals. (You said you liked the Pistons' chances to beat the Celtics. He basically patted you on the head, in front of his friends, and told you that you were cute. The Pistons went on to play the Lakers in the NBA finals, losing 4 games to 3. He had the audacity to suggest that you got lucky. You got angry, and RIGHT THEN, ON THE DAY OF THE 1988 FINALS, made a bet with him that the Pistons would not only make it to the finals in 1989, but that they would win. Which they did. He used the word "lucky" again. You predicted that the Pistons would go back to back. WHICH THEY DID. He stopped talking to you about basketball after that.)
While your friends were fantasizing about marrying a Van Halen, or a member of Duran Duran, you imagined yourself being married to Bill Laimbeer (who, okay, was already married to someone else, but, remember, this was happening in your imagination), sitting courtside and attending Republican fundraisers. The fact that you lived in Texas and had never actually been to Detroit did not strike you as a particular obstacle. (Why was a girl in Texas cheering for Detroit? Um, because BILL LAIMBEER, ISAIAH THOMAS, DENNIS RODMAN, JOHN SALLEY, MARK AGUIRRE, JOE DUMARS, ADRIAN DANTLEY, RICK MAHORN AND DO I NEED TO GO ON? LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE.)
You count among the happiest days of your life (in chronological order): Game 7 of the 1994 NBA finals (Rockets over Knicks, four games to three); Valentine's Day 1995 (first official Valentine's Day with your spouse AND the day that Portland traded Clyde Drexler to the Rockets); Game 4 of the 1995 NBA finals (Rockets over Magic in a shut-out; CLYDE CAME HOME AND GOT HIS RING!); the day you got engaged; that magical day in August 1996 when Charles Barkley got traded to Houston (even though it meant losing four players, including Sam Cassell and Robert Horry); your wedding two months later; and blah, blah, the day you first held your firstborn, blah, blah.
You count among the worst days of your life (1) the day that Phi Slama Jama lost a heartbreaker to the Wolfpack in the 1983 NCAA finals (DAMN YOU, LORENZO CHARLES!), (2) the day that Clyde the Glide had to pack up and move to Oregon because Houston used their first pick on Ralph Sampson (okay, you later admitted that it was the right choice, but at the time, a stab in the heart) and (3) EVERY TIME THE ROCKETS PLAYED THE SUNS, because, dang it, you wanted to like Charles Barkley so badly, BUT HE WAS THE ENEMY.
You consider the gift of an autographed basketball from your husband a better and far more romantic gift than jewelry, candy and flowers.
You named your first "married-couple-child-substitute pet" Barkley - specifically, Charles Wade Barkley McGlinchey. The name ended up suiting him, as he matured into a round mound (of rebound and otherwise) and has never been much of a role model. A year later, on the first anniversary of his "gotcha" day, you turned on morning TV and learned that YOU HAD ADOPTED YOUR BARKLEY ON THE REAL BARKLEY'S ACTUAL BIRTHDAY. (Karma, baby.)
You have broken more than one TV remote flinging it in the direction of a set when a game was not breaking your way. (You have never broken a TV before, because even at your worst you know to aim the remote off to the side. Otherwise, you have a broken heart and a broken TV, which is the definition of insult added to injury.)
You once left your office for lunch, upon discovering that the Knicks were staying at a hotel immediately adjacent to your building, and went "trolling for John Starks." (What were you going to do when you found him? Undetermined. But you were on record as detesting John Starks.)
You become a stark raving lunatic every March. (More on that later.)
Monday, March 3, 2014
Boy Mom Monday: Best Actor Nominations
During dinner, the Big Kid asked everyone to name their favorite actor.
Spouse: Tom Hanks. Incredible range.
Me: Seriously? Range? He plays some version of himself in every movie. He's "Affable Charming Guy." Like George Clooney.
Big Kid: So who's your favorite, Mom?
Me: Tie. Alan Rickman, Gary Oldman.
Big Kid: Gary Oldman?
Spouse: Commission Gordon. Sirius Black.
Big Kid: THAT WAS THE SAME GUY?
Me: EXACTLY.
Little Kid: The guy from "Sharknado."
Everyone else: Huh?
Little Kid: My favorite actor is the guy from "Sharknado." The one with the chainsaw.
Everyone else: IAN ZIERING?
Little Kid: If that's his name, yes.
[Stunned silence.]
If any of us think of a response, I'll post an update. But don't hold your breath.
Spouse: Tom Hanks. Incredible range.
Me: Seriously? Range? He plays some version of himself in every movie. He's "Affable Charming Guy." Like George Clooney.
Big Kid: So who's your favorite, Mom?
Me: Tie. Alan Rickman, Gary Oldman.
Big Kid: Gary Oldman?
Spouse: Commission Gordon. Sirius Black.
Big Kid: THAT WAS THE SAME GUY?
Me: EXACTLY.
Little Kid: The guy from "Sharknado."
Everyone else: Huh?
Little Kid: My favorite actor is the guy from "Sharknado." The one with the chainsaw.
Everyone else: IAN ZIERING?
Little Kid: If that's his name, yes.
[Stunned silence.]
If any of us think of a response, I'll post an update. But don't hold your breath.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Boy Mom Monday: Tit for Tat
We (well, I) hold these truths to be self-evident: that, just because my husband saw fit to throw a Y chromosome into the mix two times in succession, I do not have to live a completely un-frilly existence. For example: I AM ENTITLED TO HAVE THROW PILLOWS. AND I AM ENTITLED TO EXPECT THAT THEY NOT ACTUALLY BE THROWN - OR, THAT IF THEY ARE THROWN, THEY BE PICKED UP AND RETURNED TO THE COUCH.
Let the record show that I do not have an excessive number of throw pillows, relative to a lot of women I know. And I make sure that most of them are useful: down filling, minimal embellishments to cut into your cheek should you actually decide to rest your head on one. When I do stray from "useful," I am careful to conspicuously advertise this fact:
I also have refrained from bringing in any new pillows in recent years. Everything's a slipcover (it's all ball bearings these days!), so the same pillows stay out year-round - they just change their look. This eliminates one of Spouse's throw pillow objections, minimizing issues with "off-season storage of odd-shaped things that don't easily stack."
Slipcovers are also marginally cheaper to replace when the Little Dog eats them. I say marginally cheaper, because I have expensive taste in fabric choices, result being that some of my slipcovers might as well be complete pillows. European down-filled ones.
Here's the problem: if a pillow (or blanket throw) hits the floor, Little Dog will chew on it. He isn't one of those dogs who chews things for sport, but he is one of those dogs who cannot resist sleeping on something soft. And, rather unfortunately, he chews in his sleep.
Seriously. We have a sleep-chewer.
I managed to make it several weeks without fabric loss, and then I found my favorite teal-and-white chevron throw tossed on the floor in the living room, with the dog on top of it. I yanked it out from under him seconds before his jaws clamped down on the fringe.
And I got reaaaaaaaaaally ticked, and proclaimed another truth:
If I find a pillow or blanket on the floor, I get to take one Xbox game. Or PSP game. Or whatever. I just grab something at random. Might be something you care about, might not. If you don't want to gamble, STOP THROWING STUFF ON THE FLOOR.
This morning, I found this with a chunk taken out of the corner:
That's not just any fabric, folks - that's Kravet. ("Lutron" linen in the mahogany colorway, if you want to get specific. Discontinued.)
I can stitch the corner, but the same cannot be said for Spouse's college sweatshirt. How it ended up on the floor, I don't know - but I know enough about Spouse to know that he didn't put it there. And now it has an Ace-shaped hole in the shoulder.
Prepare for the unleashing of parental hell.
Let the record show that I do not have an excessive number of throw pillows, relative to a lot of women I know. And I make sure that most of them are useful: down filling, minimal embellishments to cut into your cheek should you actually decide to rest your head on one. When I do stray from "useful," I am careful to conspicuously advertise this fact:
I also have refrained from bringing in any new pillows in recent years. Everything's a slipcover (it's all ball bearings these days!), so the same pillows stay out year-round - they just change their look. This eliminates one of Spouse's throw pillow objections, minimizing issues with "off-season storage of odd-shaped things that don't easily stack."
Slipcovers are also marginally cheaper to replace when the Little Dog eats them. I say marginally cheaper, because I have expensive taste in fabric choices, result being that some of my slipcovers might as well be complete pillows. European down-filled ones.
Here's the problem: if a pillow (or blanket throw) hits the floor, Little Dog will chew on it. He isn't one of those dogs who chews things for sport, but he is one of those dogs who cannot resist sleeping on something soft. And, rather unfortunately, he chews in his sleep.
Seriously. We have a sleep-chewer.
I managed to make it several weeks without fabric loss, and then I found my favorite teal-and-white chevron throw tossed on the floor in the living room, with the dog on top of it. I yanked it out from under him seconds before his jaws clamped down on the fringe.
And I got reaaaaaaaaaally ticked, and proclaimed another truth:
If I find a pillow or blanket on the floor, I get to take one Xbox game. Or PSP game. Or whatever. I just grab something at random. Might be something you care about, might not. If you don't want to gamble, STOP THROWING STUFF ON THE FLOOR.
This morning, I found this with a chunk taken out of the corner:
That's not just any fabric, folks - that's Kravet. ("Lutron" linen in the mahogany colorway, if you want to get specific. Discontinued.)
I can stitch the corner, but the same cannot be said for Spouse's college sweatshirt. How it ended up on the floor, I don't know - but I know enough about Spouse to know that he didn't put it there. And now it has an Ace-shaped hole in the shoulder.
Prepare for the unleashing of parental hell.
The Tipping Point
I lurrrrrrrrrved Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point, because:
I love good nonfiction books in general;
I love nonfiction books with a sociology/cultural anthropology* bent in particular; and
I see a little bit of myself in each of the "maven," "connector" and "salesperson" archetypes.
* I almost accidentally minored in anthropology in college. No, you read that right. I went in for my final degree check the last semester of my senior year and realized, for the first time, that I had managed to accumulate all but the last three hours towards a minor in anthropology. Had I just opted for another anthro class in lieu of Dr. Divine's American Diplomatic History, I would now be able to tell people that I AM, SORT OF, AN ANTHROPOLOGIST. A MINOR ONE. But I do not regret taking American Diplomatic History. Best. Lecturer. Ever. Dare I say, DIVINE? Every day: three topics, written on the board outline-style. The class was seventy five minutes long, and each topic got exactly twenty three minutes worth of lecture time, leaving exactly six minutes for questions, which allowed for exactly two questions, which is the only number of questions that the class ever seemed to care to ask, and he would finish answering the second question EXACTLY TWO SECONDS BEFORE THE BELL RANG. Every. Blessed. Day. You could set your watch to it.
Occasionally, we burst into applause at the end of class.
The maven in me lurrrrrrrrrves Pinterest - and the would-be social scientist in me is fascinated by which pins take off, and which don't. Thus, when I have downtime while the kids are swimming, etc., I find myself checking the "pin activity" log on my Pinterest Android app.
Scrolling . . . .
A and B repinned your pin. [Thumbnail image of a casserole.]
C repinned your pin. [Thumbnail image of a humorous GIF.]
D, E and 1 other pinner repinned your pin. [Thumbnail image of an Easter centerpiece.]
F, G and 560 other pinners repinned your pin.
WHAT THE WHAT?
Clicking . . . .
Okay, explain to me WHY THIS, EXACTLY? I mean, yeah, it's bright. And monogrammy, and polka-dotty. But I have images of other equally bright rooms on my Pinterest:
. . . and lots of monograms, applied in far more interesting places:
(That last one is genius, BTW. Tear the side off of a broken plastic laundry basket (admit it, you have a broken one lurking around that you just can't seem to part with): BOOM, instant dot stencil.)
So what makes the hot pink room with the giant polka dots so special? Malcolm Gladwell, if you are reading this (hey, it could happen - maybe he Googles his name looking for copyright infringement, or maybe he's just really vain, or really, really bored between book concepts), I would appreciate hearing your hypothesis. Please video your response, limiting it to twenty three minutes and leaving exactly two minutes at the end for a follow-up question.
Thanks in advance.
I love good nonfiction books in general;
I love nonfiction books with a sociology/cultural anthropology* bent in particular; and
I see a little bit of myself in each of the "maven," "connector" and "salesperson" archetypes.
* I almost accidentally minored in anthropology in college. No, you read that right. I went in for my final degree check the last semester of my senior year and realized, for the first time, that I had managed to accumulate all but the last three hours towards a minor in anthropology. Had I just opted for another anthro class in lieu of Dr. Divine's American Diplomatic History, I would now be able to tell people that I AM, SORT OF, AN ANTHROPOLOGIST. A MINOR ONE. But I do not regret taking American Diplomatic History. Best. Lecturer. Ever. Dare I say, DIVINE? Every day: three topics, written on the board outline-style. The class was seventy five minutes long, and each topic got exactly twenty three minutes worth of lecture time, leaving exactly six minutes for questions, which allowed for exactly two questions, which is the only number of questions that the class ever seemed to care to ask, and he would finish answering the second question EXACTLY TWO SECONDS BEFORE THE BELL RANG. Every. Blessed. Day. You could set your watch to it.
Occasionally, we burst into applause at the end of class.
The maven in me lurrrrrrrrrves Pinterest - and the would-be social scientist in me is fascinated by which pins take off, and which don't. Thus, when I have downtime while the kids are swimming, etc., I find myself checking the "pin activity" log on my Pinterest Android app.
Scrolling . . . .
A and B repinned your pin. [Thumbnail image of a casserole.]
C repinned your pin. [Thumbnail image of a humorous GIF.]
D, E and 1 other pinner repinned your pin. [Thumbnail image of an Easter centerpiece.]
F, G and 560 other pinners repinned your pin.
WHAT THE WHAT?
Clicking . . . .
Okay, explain to me WHY THIS, EXACTLY? I mean, yeah, it's bright. And monogrammy, and polka-dotty. But I have images of other equally bright rooms on my Pinterest:
. . . and lots of monograms, applied in far more interesting places:
And I think we all know that I'm all about the polka dots:
(That last one is genius, BTW. Tear the side off of a broken plastic laundry basket (admit it, you have a broken one lurking around that you just can't seem to part with): BOOM, instant dot stencil.)
So what makes the hot pink room with the giant polka dots so special? Malcolm Gladwell, if you are reading this (hey, it could happen - maybe he Googles his name looking for copyright infringement, or maybe he's just really vain, or really, really bored between book concepts), I would appreciate hearing your hypothesis. Please video your response, limiting it to twenty three minutes and leaving exactly two minutes at the end for a follow-up question.
Thanks in advance.
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