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Sunday, December 23, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish
First of all, I bet you're wondering what the title of this post has to do with karaoke. Simple - absolutely nothing, I just think it's funny.
I once heard that the word “karaoke” was Japanese for “tone deaf.” I’ve since learned that it actually means “drunk people singing horribly.” (okay, okay - it REALLY means "empty orchestra," but that's not as funny, now is it?).
My sister is a karaoke jockey at a local small bar, and I’ve been recruited on many occasions to accompany her. I discovered that drunk people LOVE to sing, and the more drinks they’ve had, the less discriminative they are with their selections.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m as addicted as the next person to the ability to hold an audience captive despite the quality (or coherentness) of the song, but I seriously think that there should be some strict rules enforced.
To any jockeys or bar owners who may be reading, I propose the following list of rules for your karaoke patrons:
1. Singing “I’m Too Sexy” does not give you license to start taking off articles of clothing;
2. Unless you’re Bobcat Goldthwait, if you don’t know the words and can’t see the screen, PLEASE do not attempt to sing;
3. Under no circumstances should the microphones or microphone cords be held or placed anywhere besides in your hands - oh, and I'd like to propose a 3-inch rule in regards to the distance between the microphone and a person's mouth (and maybe a spit guard?);
4. In the event that you cannot stand on your own, a stool will be provided – USE IT (I know personally that this rule is important, and implement it often);
5. Unless your name is Steve, I will personally, brutally, hurt you if you so much as hum the tune to "Mambo Number Five;"
6. Except in special cases, drinking more than 3 beers should automatically disqualify you from being allowed to sing "The Devil went down to Georgia;"
7. If your sister can't find her chair, please refrain from making her sing anything more complicated than "the Hokey Pokey;"
8. In relation to #7, it's mean to kick a chair out from under someone, even if you catch them. No, it has nothing to do with karaoke, it's just mean. Don't do it.
9. It takes a lot of guts to get up in front of a bar full of people and sing badly. Please be courteous and clap, even if it is a little creepy to hear a muffled "WOO!" from the bathroom.
and lastly:
10. Tip jars aren't just there to contain your gum wrappers, random pocket lint, and beer bottle labels. Tip your DJ's. They're not just there to look pretty and prop up drunks.
In regards to rule number 2, I’ll understand if you don’t use it, because singers that make your ears bleed sell more alcohol. Other than that, I think my list is reasonable.
Thanks for your time. So long, and thanks for all the fish.
**DISCLAIMER: Not all karaoke singers are bad, in fact, I know several who are vey good. It's just funnier to make karaoke out to be a tone-deaf circus of drunks balancing half-hazardly between a wobbly mic stand and a bar stool. Think about it.
I once heard that the word “karaoke” was Japanese for “tone deaf.” I’ve since learned that it actually means “drunk people singing horribly.” (okay, okay - it REALLY means "empty orchestra," but that's not as funny, now is it?).
My sister is a karaoke jockey at a local small bar, and I’ve been recruited on many occasions to accompany her. I discovered that drunk people LOVE to sing, and the more drinks they’ve had, the less discriminative they are with their selections.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m as addicted as the next person to the ability to hold an audience captive despite the quality (or coherentness) of the song, but I seriously think that there should be some strict rules enforced.
To any jockeys or bar owners who may be reading, I propose the following list of rules for your karaoke patrons:
1. Singing “I’m Too Sexy” does not give you license to start taking off articles of clothing;
2. Unless you’re Bobcat Goldthwait, if you don’t know the words and can’t see the screen, PLEASE do not attempt to sing;
3. Under no circumstances should the microphones or microphone cords be held or placed anywhere besides in your hands - oh, and I'd like to propose a 3-inch rule in regards to the distance between the microphone and a person's mouth (and maybe a spit guard?);
4. In the event that you cannot stand on your own, a stool will be provided – USE IT (I know personally that this rule is important, and implement it often);
5. Unless your name is Steve, I will personally, brutally, hurt you if you so much as hum the tune to "Mambo Number Five;"
6. Except in special cases, drinking more than 3 beers should automatically disqualify you from being allowed to sing "The Devil went down to Georgia;"
7. If your sister can't find her chair, please refrain from making her sing anything more complicated than "the Hokey Pokey;"
8. In relation to #7, it's mean to kick a chair out from under someone, even if you catch them. No, it has nothing to do with karaoke, it's just mean. Don't do it.
9. It takes a lot of guts to get up in front of a bar full of people and sing badly. Please be courteous and clap, even if it is a little creepy to hear a muffled "WOO!" from the bathroom.
and lastly:
10. Tip jars aren't just there to contain your gum wrappers, random pocket lint, and beer bottle labels. Tip your DJ's. They're not just there to look pretty and prop up drunks.
In regards to rule number 2, I’ll understand if you don’t use it, because singers that make your ears bleed sell more alcohol. Other than that, I think my list is reasonable.
Thanks for your time. So long, and thanks for all the fish.
**DISCLAIMER: Not all karaoke singers are bad, in fact, I know several who are vey good. It's just funnier to make karaoke out to be a tone-deaf circus of drunks balancing half-hazardly between a wobbly mic stand and a bar stool. Think about it.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Give Me Some Milk, or the Puppy Gets It
Aside from my children now thinking that using the potty is a team sport, my youngest daughter has decided that she should get what she wants, when she wants it - or else.
This isn't entirely uncommon, but let me point out for anyone who doesn't already know that she's 3. She doesn't normally whine or throw a fit, but now that we have a puppy, she's upped her game in a hysterically disturbing way.
I was taking a phone call the other day, convinced (though I should have known better) that my girls were occupied eating their lunches. My youngest daughter very politely asked for some more milk; I told her, in an equally polite way, to wait a minute. She asked again, I told her again to wait; Mommy was on the phone.
After a few more times of her asking (less and less politely each time, I might add), I hear the familiar yelp of the puppy when my daughters try to bear hug him - a big no no both for the puppy's sake, and the fact that they know not to play with the puppy while they're eating - so I tell her to put the dog down.
I don't get the common "Okay, Momma," or the sweet sounding but obviously a lie, "I am, Momma," instead I get, "GIVE ME SOME MILK!"
Apparently now I can add hostage negotiator to my list of personal achievements. I'll just say that my phone call was cut short and I saved the puppy - and my daughter didn't get any more milk for that meal.
Guess Daddy will have to save his action movies for when the girls are sleeping from now on.
This isn't entirely uncommon, but let me point out for anyone who doesn't already know that she's 3. She doesn't normally whine or throw a fit, but now that we have a puppy, she's upped her game in a hysterically disturbing way.
I was taking a phone call the other day, convinced (though I should have known better) that my girls were occupied eating their lunches. My youngest daughter very politely asked for some more milk; I told her, in an equally polite way, to wait a minute. She asked again, I told her again to wait; Mommy was on the phone.
After a few more times of her asking (less and less politely each time, I might add), I hear the familiar yelp of the puppy when my daughters try to bear hug him - a big no no both for the puppy's sake, and the fact that they know not to play with the puppy while they're eating - so I tell her to put the dog down.
I don't get the common "Okay, Momma," or the sweet sounding but obviously a lie, "I am, Momma," instead I get, "GIVE ME SOME MILK!"
Apparently now I can add hostage negotiator to my list of personal achievements. I'll just say that my phone call was cut short and I saved the puppy - and my daughter didn't get any more milk for that meal.
Guess Daddy will have to save his action movies for when the girls are sleeping from now on.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Everyday Solutions
My phone rings literally about every ten minutes, all calls from bill collectors and telemarketers. We thought screening calls would be enough, but from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. (I know right, how incredibly rude), our phone rings non-stop - and if we're on the phone, we get interrupted calls from the call-waiting beeps because the bill collectors and telemarketers know someone's there, so they seem to hang up and call right back.
I've figured this one out - either I'm going to throw the phone out the window, or I'm going to get ahold of all these people's personal home phone numbers and start calling THEM every ten minutes. I think the high phone bill would be worth it.
I made oatmeal for my girls this morning - well, it LOOKED like oatmeal, but really it was glue masquerading as oatmeal. I think I'll stick with cold cereal from now on.
Both my girls caught some type of bug, so I'm shoveling herbal teas and the occasional dose of Motrin in them. They're tired and cranky, and I hate seeing them not feel good, but doggone it, that Motrin is potent stuff, because as soon as it kicks in they're as energetic and obnoxious as ever. I like that it makes them feel better, of course, but where's MY fix-all energy booster? Eh, I'll stick with my vitamins and green tea.
Our puppy is chewing on EVERYTHING, and with two small children it's impossible to put things up, because as soon as I do, they pull it right back down because they thin it's funny when the puppy growls and does that head shake thing he does when he chews on my hubby's belt or shoes. You'd think the dog would be afraid of something 4 times bigger than he is - apparently not, shoes are the first thing he goes after. I think I'll get one of those remote control buzzer things, maybe a loud noise from an inanimate object will quell the fascination.
That's all for today, I'm off to go shopping.
I've figured this one out - either I'm going to throw the phone out the window, or I'm going to get ahold of all these people's personal home phone numbers and start calling THEM every ten minutes. I think the high phone bill would be worth it.
I made oatmeal for my girls this morning - well, it LOOKED like oatmeal, but really it was glue masquerading as oatmeal. I think I'll stick with cold cereal from now on.
Both my girls caught some type of bug, so I'm shoveling herbal teas and the occasional dose of Motrin in them. They're tired and cranky, and I hate seeing them not feel good, but doggone it, that Motrin is potent stuff, because as soon as it kicks in they're as energetic and obnoxious as ever. I like that it makes them feel better, of course, but where's MY fix-all energy booster? Eh, I'll stick with my vitamins and green tea.
Our puppy is chewing on EVERYTHING, and with two small children it's impossible to put things up, because as soon as I do, they pull it right back down because they thin it's funny when the puppy growls and does that head shake thing he does when he chews on my hubby's belt or shoes. You'd think the dog would be afraid of something 4 times bigger than he is - apparently not, shoes are the first thing he goes after. I think I'll get one of those remote control buzzer things, maybe a loud noise from an inanimate object will quell the fascination.
That's all for today, I'm off to go shopping.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Catching Up
Day before yesterday I thought I'd put our puppy to good use by giving him my girls' lunch leftovers of chicken tenders and french fries, with ketchup. I have to wonder what I've been feeding my children, since the puppy immediately went past the chicken and straight to the ketchup.
Thanksgiving was a total blast (note the dripping sarcasm here). Nobody showed up, so I had way too much food for a family of 4, plus I'd spent the entire morning tripping over two children and a dog, trying to keep them AND myself from falling head-first into the oven. I finally got dinner done, just to have my typically picky girls turn their noses up to everything but the sweet potatoes. So now, we have more leftovers than we'll EVER know what to do with, and 2 children that refuse to help eat it.
I see about 60 pounds and a broken scale in my near future.
To make things even better, my children have decided to start building complex climbing devices out of small furniture and large toys. The effort on my part to put a latch hook on their playroom closet door was futile - 5 minutes with a small shelf and Dora chair and they were in.
I'm starting to think that toddlers should be employed by the CIA.
My husband is still in the habit of sleeping until noon, and my girls's energy levels are rising by the day, as is my blood pressure. He sleeps through the alarm, despite my multiple, "accidental" kicks and nudges to make him get out of bed first.
Anyone know where to buy a good bull horn?
Thanksgiving was a total blast (note the dripping sarcasm here). Nobody showed up, so I had way too much food for a family of 4, plus I'd spent the entire morning tripping over two children and a dog, trying to keep them AND myself from falling head-first into the oven. I finally got dinner done, just to have my typically picky girls turn their noses up to everything but the sweet potatoes. So now, we have more leftovers than we'll EVER know what to do with, and 2 children that refuse to help eat it.
I see about 60 pounds and a broken scale in my near future.
To make things even better, my children have decided to start building complex climbing devices out of small furniture and large toys. The effort on my part to put a latch hook on their playroom closet door was futile - 5 minutes with a small shelf and Dora chair and they were in.
I'm starting to think that toddlers should be employed by the CIA.
My husband is still in the habit of sleeping until noon, and my girls's energy levels are rising by the day, as is my blood pressure. He sleeps through the alarm, despite my multiple, "accidental" kicks and nudges to make him get out of bed first.
Anyone know where to buy a good bull horn?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Too Much Coffee, So Little Time
I've had about 3 pots of coffee between 2 a.m. this morning and now (10:57 a.m. my time), and haven't been to bed yet.
Still, I've managed to get absolutely nothing done. Aside from the fact that my eyes are glued wide open and my fingers are trying to move faster than my brain will allow, I'm okay - except that I'm beginning to think it was futile to stop drinking the coffee to quell such frequent trips to the potty, which also drastically cut into my productivity.
Sad, but I actually do this often. I think Gevalia should make me a preferred customer.
Do they make such a thing as a caffeine patch? I'm not looking to wean myself from coffee completely, but if I'm working it would save a great amount of time to not have to pick up a cup every few minutes, would it not?
I'll have to look into that...
In the meantime, it looks like trying to write anything that actually makes sense at this point in time is pretty much pointless. I think I'll go re-alphabetize my DVDs.
Still, I've managed to get absolutely nothing done. Aside from the fact that my eyes are glued wide open and my fingers are trying to move faster than my brain will allow, I'm okay - except that I'm beginning to think it was futile to stop drinking the coffee to quell such frequent trips to the potty, which also drastically cut into my productivity.
Sad, but I actually do this often. I think Gevalia should make me a preferred customer.
Do they make such a thing as a caffeine patch? I'm not looking to wean myself from coffee completely, but if I'm working it would save a great amount of time to not have to pick up a cup every few minutes, would it not?
I'll have to look into that...
In the meantime, it looks like trying to write anything that actually makes sense at this point in time is pretty much pointless. I think I'll go re-alphabetize my DVDs.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Censoring Santa?
I came across an article on the Yahoo! front page about Santas in Australia being asked to not use the phrase "ho ho ho," and to instead say, "ha ha ha."
Why? "Because it scares children and offends women."
Um...WHAT?
Okay, Santas have only been placed in every department store for the past, oh, I don't know, 50 YEARS, and someone is just now saying that a traditional saying is offensive?
Let's take a look at this. We take our children to a public place and tell them to sit in a complete strager's lap - a complete stranger who's donning a fluffly red suit and asks our children if they've been naughty or nice. Then we take a picture of it. I know, I know, it's all in good fun, right?
But if THAT alone doesn't scare children, and there haven't been any complaints about this whole ritual being somewhat perverse, why in the WORLD would Santa's typical, jolly "HO HO HO" suddenly be frightening and offensive?
I'm just wondering who actually came forward with this complaint, and who was dumb enough to take it seriously.
I'm all for Women's Lib, but come on - someone needs to find more important things to complain about.
Why? "Because it scares children and offends women."
Um...WHAT?
Okay, Santas have only been placed in every department store for the past, oh, I don't know, 50 YEARS, and someone is just now saying that a traditional saying is offensive?
Let's take a look at this. We take our children to a public place and tell them to sit in a complete strager's lap - a complete stranger who's donning a fluffly red suit and asks our children if they've been naughty or nice. Then we take a picture of it. I know, I know, it's all in good fun, right?
But if THAT alone doesn't scare children, and there haven't been any complaints about this whole ritual being somewhat perverse, why in the WORLD would Santa's typical, jolly "HO HO HO" suddenly be frightening and offensive?
I'm just wondering who actually came forward with this complaint, and who was dumb enough to take it seriously.
I'm all for Women's Lib, but come on - someone needs to find more important things to complain about.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Potty Training the Puppy
I've mentioned in previous posts that my hubby got duped into adopting a new puppy, and that we're in the process of potty training him AND my daughter at the same time.
When my youngest daughter came to me this morning telling me she had to go potty, I had no idea of the events that were about to unfold.
"Well, go potty, honey." I told her.
She shook her head. "Uh-uh. Outside."
"What?"
"I go potty outside." This took a minute to sink in. When it did, I couldn't help but giggle - apparently she'd been observing my husband and I taking the puppy outside to potty, and scolding him if he went in the floor, telling him, "You go potty outside."
I told her that only the puppy goes potty outside. This seemed to perplex her a little. "Why?"
...and here's where I made my mistake. Instead of giving her a straight answer, I thought I'd be funny, and told her, "because he's not tall enough to reach the potty."
Fast forward to lunch time. I'm preparing a meal fit for finicky toddlers, and thinking that all was well with my children, considering I wasn't hearing any whining, screaming, banging, smashing, or puppy yelps.
Then my oldest daughter's voice floats in, "Mommaaaaaaa......"
*sigh*
She's standing in the hallway pointing into the bathroom, a deadpan "someone's gonna GET IT" look on her face. Suddenly there's a huge SPLASH followed by a few smaller splashes, and my oldest daughter's eyes growing to the size of saucers.
I get to the bathroom, to find my youngest daughter guiltily standing next to the toilet, and the puppy splashing away - and I'm not really sure if he was playing, or trying to get out of the toilet (he loves to jump in the shower with us, strange dog).
My youngest daughter grins at me and says, "Look, Momma - I help Chopper go potty."
So, the lesson here today is: Don't tell your children that your pet doesn't use the potty "because they're not tall enough," or you'll wind up with a soaking wet pet and mess you REALLY don't want to clean up.
I'm just glad it wasn't a cat.
When my youngest daughter came to me this morning telling me she had to go potty, I had no idea of the events that were about to unfold.
"Well, go potty, honey." I told her.
She shook her head. "Uh-uh. Outside."
"What?"
"I go potty outside." This took a minute to sink in. When it did, I couldn't help but giggle - apparently she'd been observing my husband and I taking the puppy outside to potty, and scolding him if he went in the floor, telling him, "You go potty outside."
I told her that only the puppy goes potty outside. This seemed to perplex her a little. "Why?"
...and here's where I made my mistake. Instead of giving her a straight answer, I thought I'd be funny, and told her, "because he's not tall enough to reach the potty."
Fast forward to lunch time. I'm preparing a meal fit for finicky toddlers, and thinking that all was well with my children, considering I wasn't hearing any whining, screaming, banging, smashing, or puppy yelps.
Then my oldest daughter's voice floats in, "Mommaaaaaaa......"
*sigh*
She's standing in the hallway pointing into the bathroom, a deadpan "someone's gonna GET IT" look on her face. Suddenly there's a huge SPLASH followed by a few smaller splashes, and my oldest daughter's eyes growing to the size of saucers.
I get to the bathroom, to find my youngest daughter guiltily standing next to the toilet, and the puppy splashing away - and I'm not really sure if he was playing, or trying to get out of the toilet (he loves to jump in the shower with us, strange dog).
My youngest daughter grins at me and says, "Look, Momma - I help Chopper go potty."
So, the lesson here today is: Don't tell your children that your pet doesn't use the potty "because they're not tall enough," or you'll wind up with a soaking wet pet and mess you REALLY don't want to clean up.
I'm just glad it wasn't a cat.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Conspiracy Theory #122 - The Link Between Parenting & Tourette's Syndrome
We all know that Tourette's is an inherited neurological disorder that can cause tics, even to the point of blurting otherwise inappropriate and vulgar language.
What I bet you didn't know though, is that, just like insanity, you inherit it not from your parents - but from your children. And let me tell you, if it's not Tourette's, we're in trouble - because if it's NOT Tourette's then all our children have the telekinetic ability to locate and tweak the crap out of any and all "angry" buttons.
Before you say anything, yes, I am well aware that Bill Cosby has already covered this topic (brilliantly, I might add) in a stand-up routine circa mid-eighties - but the bursts of profanity and incoherent babble that Mr. Cosby mentioned aren't all that's involved with parental Tourette's.
There are tics. Endless amounts of tics. For those of you out there who don't have children, let me explain. My youngest daughter can reach a pitch with her voice that sends my foot into a furious tap that takes at least five minutes to slow down well enough to stop it. My oldest daughter has this run-on inquiry thing she does that causes my eyes to roll back into my head and a low, guttural noise to creep eerily from my throat. (picture Stewie on Family Guy - "Mom. Mum. Lois. Mom. Mommy. Mum...."; that's my daughter, minus the 'Lois' part.)
And yes, there are plenty of fragmented sentences (and words), blurted curse-words (much as I hate to admit it), and that weird "EH!" noise all parents make when their children are reaching for something they're not supposed to. If you don't understand that part, my apologies...I'm usually pretty good at onomatopoeia's (words that are spelled the way they sound, like *whack* - strange that a word meant to make communication simpler should be so difficult to spell), but that one is a little difficult.
There's also a few strange noises that erupt for no aparent reason, except to get my childrens' attention.
At any rate, I'm pretty sure my neighbors think I'm certifiably insane and, being a parent, I'm not really sure they'd be wrong if they did.
What I bet you didn't know though, is that, just like insanity, you inherit it not from your parents - but from your children. And let me tell you, if it's not Tourette's, we're in trouble - because if it's NOT Tourette's then all our children have the telekinetic ability to locate and tweak the crap out of any and all "angry" buttons.
Before you say anything, yes, I am well aware that Bill Cosby has already covered this topic (brilliantly, I might add) in a stand-up routine circa mid-eighties - but the bursts of profanity and incoherent babble that Mr. Cosby mentioned aren't all that's involved with parental Tourette's.
There are tics. Endless amounts of tics. For those of you out there who don't have children, let me explain. My youngest daughter can reach a pitch with her voice that sends my foot into a furious tap that takes at least five minutes to slow down well enough to stop it. My oldest daughter has this run-on inquiry thing she does that causes my eyes to roll back into my head and a low, guttural noise to creep eerily from my throat. (picture Stewie on Family Guy - "Mom. Mum. Lois. Mom. Mommy. Mum...."; that's my daughter, minus the 'Lois' part.)
And yes, there are plenty of fragmented sentences (and words), blurted curse-words (much as I hate to admit it), and that weird "EH!" noise all parents make when their children are reaching for something they're not supposed to. If you don't understand that part, my apologies...I'm usually pretty good at onomatopoeia's (words that are spelled the way they sound, like *whack* - strange that a word meant to make communication simpler should be so difficult to spell), but that one is a little difficult.
There's also a few strange noises that erupt for no aparent reason, except to get my childrens' attention.
At any rate, I'm pretty sure my neighbors think I'm certifiably insane and, being a parent, I'm not really sure they'd be wrong if they did.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Potty Training at Grand Central Station and a new "child"
Was it enough work for me to potty train my youngest daughter, home-school my oldest (technically both of them), clean, cook, and feed every relative and friend that came wandering in off the street?
Oh, no. My hubby thinks I have so much extra time, we could take in a new family member - a puppy.
Before I go any further, I'd like to point out that despite his insistence of the contrary, my husband might as well have a giant "SUCKER" emblazoned on his forehead.
This isn't JUST a puppy. Oh yes, he's cute, he's small, he's mild-mannered, and he's actually potty training better than my 3 year old (who I've been TRYING to potty train between working, moving, and endless company/house guests for the last year and a half). He's a wrinkly, grunting, waddling poop factory with a face that only a mother (or my husband) could love. No joke - this puppy poops 5 times his own body weight in a day - and usually in my house.
I realize that there are several parents out there who are single and/or raising multiple children, and my parenting woes pale in comparison - but I'm willing to bet that my two girls could give any set of sextuplets a run for their money, both mess-wise and in the art of stress-inducing. Add to that the new puppy and the fact that my husband often reverts into pre-teen boy with a love of all things Star Trek and Star Wars mentality, and I've got the equivalent of a daycare in my house.
Picture if you will, (which I've mentioned before) my oldest child grinning in my face when I wake up, or standing at the side of my bed staring at me in a silent, somber "Children of the Damned" manner (blond hair, blue eyes, and all). That's IF either of them comes to get me when they wake up.
Then, take into account that we have tile floors with a few throw rugs, and my hubby thinks he's secretly a polar bear, so I'm lucky if the thermostat creeps any higher than 71 degrees (not so bad in the summer, but come on - you can't tell me he doesn't know it's NOVEMBER) - so add the shivers of a creepy awakening to the tremble of my feet being wrenched from a nice warm bed onto a cold, hard floor.
I'll make breakfast (which is a chore unto itself, considering my children are so entranced by the new puppy that no amount of threats can stop them from picking him up or trying to feed him my shoes), and then fight with my girls to eat instead of arguing over whether we should be watching Spongebob or Dora. Without fail, I'll step in a puddle during breakfast clean-up, and the only way I know if it was my daughter or the puppy will be the tell-tale wet spot that may or may not be on my sofa under her bum (God bless the makers of Febreeze and those shampooer attachments for upholstery).
I vainly try to keep my children from screaming at the top of their lungs while they're chasing each other (and the puppy) up and down the hall, despite the fact that I honestly think my hubby could sleep through an atom bomb, as long as it doesn't tickle his feet as it lands. To add insult to injury, my hubby actually told me the other day, "Just make sure I'm up when you get up." Riiight.
Cue the knock on the door, and the entry of either my cousin or one of my husband's friends, looking for food and company until they either have to go to work or meet someone elsewhere.
My phone rings every 5 minutes from a telemarketer or bill collector, so despite the fact that we have an answering machine and screen our calls, the phone is always at the opposite end of the house from where I am, so picture me, running back and forth searching for the phone to make sure it isn't someone I know before the 3rd ring - all the time ONE of my girls being Captain Obvious and repeatedly telling me, "Momma, the phone". If it's someone I know and I actually try to hold a phone conversation, my girls take it as their cue to pump up their vocal volume to sonic decibels (is that even a proper use of that term? I assure you, in my house it is). This sets the usually quiet puppy off, who barks and charges at either of the girls, sending them screaming yet again through the house.
That's all within the first hour or two from the time we get up.
It's not so bad, I can actually calm them down long enough to get something semi-educational done, and the puppy eventually takes a nap. When I finally get my girls down for THEIR nap (which is a totally different battle, trust me) and I flop onto the nearest soft surface to rest my aching back and throbbing head, my hubby will come wandering from the bedroom, grinning sleepily and rubbing his eyes. "So how was your morning?" he'll ask. Hmph.
I'm wondering how effective it would be to put my knee in his back and "accidentally, in my sleep," push him out of bed when my girls get up.
Oh, no. My hubby thinks I have so much extra time, we could take in a new family member - a puppy.
Before I go any further, I'd like to point out that despite his insistence of the contrary, my husband might as well have a giant "SUCKER" emblazoned on his forehead.
This isn't JUST a puppy. Oh yes, he's cute, he's small, he's mild-mannered, and he's actually potty training better than my 3 year old (who I've been TRYING to potty train between working, moving, and endless company/house guests for the last year and a half). He's a wrinkly, grunting, waddling poop factory with a face that only a mother (or my husband) could love. No joke - this puppy poops 5 times his own body weight in a day - and usually in my house.
I realize that there are several parents out there who are single and/or raising multiple children, and my parenting woes pale in comparison - but I'm willing to bet that my two girls could give any set of sextuplets a run for their money, both mess-wise and in the art of stress-inducing. Add to that the new puppy and the fact that my husband often reverts into pre-teen boy with a love of all things Star Trek and Star Wars mentality, and I've got the equivalent of a daycare in my house.
Picture if you will, (which I've mentioned before) my oldest child grinning in my face when I wake up, or standing at the side of my bed staring at me in a silent, somber "Children of the Damned" manner (blond hair, blue eyes, and all). That's IF either of them comes to get me when they wake up.
Then, take into account that we have tile floors with a few throw rugs, and my hubby thinks he's secretly a polar bear, so I'm lucky if the thermostat creeps any higher than 71 degrees (not so bad in the summer, but come on - you can't tell me he doesn't know it's NOVEMBER) - so add the shivers of a creepy awakening to the tremble of my feet being wrenched from a nice warm bed onto a cold, hard floor.
I'll make breakfast (which is a chore unto itself, considering my children are so entranced by the new puppy that no amount of threats can stop them from picking him up or trying to feed him my shoes), and then fight with my girls to eat instead of arguing over whether we should be watching Spongebob or Dora. Without fail, I'll step in a puddle during breakfast clean-up, and the only way I know if it was my daughter or the puppy will be the tell-tale wet spot that may or may not be on my sofa under her bum (God bless the makers of Febreeze and those shampooer attachments for upholstery).
I vainly try to keep my children from screaming at the top of their lungs while they're chasing each other (and the puppy) up and down the hall, despite the fact that I honestly think my hubby could sleep through an atom bomb, as long as it doesn't tickle his feet as it lands. To add insult to injury, my hubby actually told me the other day, "Just make sure I'm up when you get up." Riiight.
Cue the knock on the door, and the entry of either my cousin or one of my husband's friends, looking for food and company until they either have to go to work or meet someone elsewhere.
My phone rings every 5 minutes from a telemarketer or bill collector, so despite the fact that we have an answering machine and screen our calls, the phone is always at the opposite end of the house from where I am, so picture me, running back and forth searching for the phone to make sure it isn't someone I know before the 3rd ring - all the time ONE of my girls being Captain Obvious and repeatedly telling me, "Momma, the phone". If it's someone I know and I actually try to hold a phone conversation, my girls take it as their cue to pump up their vocal volume to sonic decibels (is that even a proper use of that term? I assure you, in my house it is). This sets the usually quiet puppy off, who barks and charges at either of the girls, sending them screaming yet again through the house.
That's all within the first hour or two from the time we get up.
It's not so bad, I can actually calm them down long enough to get something semi-educational done, and the puppy eventually takes a nap. When I finally get my girls down for THEIR nap (which is a totally different battle, trust me) and I flop onto the nearest soft surface to rest my aching back and throbbing head, my hubby will come wandering from the bedroom, grinning sleepily and rubbing his eyes. "So how was your morning?" he'll ask. Hmph.
I'm wondering how effective it would be to put my knee in his back and "accidentally, in my sleep," push him out of bed when my girls get up.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Conspiracy Theory #587 - "Alone Time"
I often feel a bit like a mouse in a maze, being observed by men in white coats with their pocket protectors and clipboards. I can see it now:
"Let's introduce the subject to the idea of 'alone time,' and see how frazzled she gets trying to actually get any."
Alright, I figured out a long time ago that when you have kids, you forfeit having so much as potty time to yourself.
...and that's why Moms, in all their infinate wisdom, came up with NAP TIME.
Right?
Wrong.
My girls can be sound asleep, and I'll fool myself into actually thinking I might have an hour or so to myself, to read, or write, or (joy of all joys) clean - but I always manage to forget that one little factor that always robs me of any chance of time to myself.
My husband.
He can be occupied all day long with his job or games or sports - that is, until I try to do anything that doesn't involve meal preparation, scrubbing finger paint out of carpet, or potty training. Now, what is it exactly about men and children, that keeps them from understanding that a closed door means "stay out," or even "I'm busy, please knock first, and maybe wait at least 5 minutes in between interruptions to tell me how funny Stewie was trying to get the cookies off the counter, or how the Colts were totally cheated by their 4 point loss"?
At the risk of sounding bitter here, I must say I had another wrench thrown into my gears when we moved into a house with no locks on the doors - not like they ever stopped my husband before, but at least they slowed everyone down a few seconds.
I've even gone so far as to spend the extra few minutes gathering heavy objects to form barricades - only to have my husband and children work that much harder and longer to get through them.
I'm at a loss here. Am I doomed to a future of having the bejeezus scared out of me, when I'm taking a calming shower and turn around to find a tiny face peeping around the curtain at me? To waking to a child thisclose to my face grinning widely at 6 a.m. every morning? To the revolving doors on my bathroom and bedroom, and the faces that pop in at the worst times proclaiming, "Hiiiiiii Momma!" just long enough to derail whatever I'm doing?
*sigh*
And these are the times, I'm told, that I'll look back on and smile at. I know it's true, but come on - I could look back and smile on peaceful times, too.
"Let's introduce the subject to the idea of 'alone time,' and see how frazzled she gets trying to actually get any."
Alright, I figured out a long time ago that when you have kids, you forfeit having so much as potty time to yourself.
...and that's why Moms, in all their infinate wisdom, came up with NAP TIME.
Right?
Wrong.
My girls can be sound asleep, and I'll fool myself into actually thinking I might have an hour or so to myself, to read, or write, or (joy of all joys) clean - but I always manage to forget that one little factor that always robs me of any chance of time to myself.
My husband.
He can be occupied all day long with his job or games or sports - that is, until I try to do anything that doesn't involve meal preparation, scrubbing finger paint out of carpet, or potty training. Now, what is it exactly about men and children, that keeps them from understanding that a closed door means "stay out," or even "I'm busy, please knock first, and maybe wait at least 5 minutes in between interruptions to tell me how funny Stewie was trying to get the cookies off the counter, or how the Colts were totally cheated by their 4 point loss"?
At the risk of sounding bitter here, I must say I had another wrench thrown into my gears when we moved into a house with no locks on the doors - not like they ever stopped my husband before, but at least they slowed everyone down a few seconds.
I've even gone so far as to spend the extra few minutes gathering heavy objects to form barricades - only to have my husband and children work that much harder and longer to get through them.
I'm at a loss here. Am I doomed to a future of having the bejeezus scared out of me, when I'm taking a calming shower and turn around to find a tiny face peeping around the curtain at me? To waking to a child thisclose to my face grinning widely at 6 a.m. every morning? To the revolving doors on my bathroom and bedroom, and the faces that pop in at the worst times proclaiming, "Hiiiiiii Momma!" just long enough to derail whatever I'm doing?
*sigh*
And these are the times, I'm told, that I'll look back on and smile at. I know it's true, but come on - I could look back and smile on peaceful times, too.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Life After Harry Potter?
So J.K. Rowling has just finished her first book after the phenomenal Harry Potter series, "The Tales of Beedle the Bard" - but only 7 copies were made.
One is to be auctioned for a children's chairty next month - "bound in brown morocco leather and mounted with silver and semiprecious stones, auctioned at Sotheby's with a starting price of $62,000." Kudos to J.K. for giving back.
The other 6 are supposed to be given as gifts. Geez, how do I get on that lady's Christmas list?
Yea, look forward to thousands of forgeries and fan fictions on this book in the very, very near future.
I'm curious as to why she's only making 7 copies though? Does it suck? Is she worried that only this one will make it to the top selling list because of her Harry Potter fame, only for her to disappear into obscurity after writing a few more, not so popular books? Or does she watch eBay, drinking her Earl Grey and laughing at the people scrambling and pilfering their children's college funds for but a glimpse of this elusive work of literature?
Which brings be to my next question - how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?
The world may never know.
I have to admire J.K. Rowling for her somewhat eclectic strategies. Genius, J.K., absolutely genius.
One is to be auctioned for a children's chairty next month - "bound in brown morocco leather and mounted with silver and semiprecious stones, auctioned at Sotheby's with a starting price of $62,000." Kudos to J.K. for giving back.
The other 6 are supposed to be given as gifts. Geez, how do I get on that lady's Christmas list?
Yea, look forward to thousands of forgeries and fan fictions on this book in the very, very near future.
I'm curious as to why she's only making 7 copies though? Does it suck? Is she worried that only this one will make it to the top selling list because of her Harry Potter fame, only for her to disappear into obscurity after writing a few more, not so popular books? Or does she watch eBay, drinking her Earl Grey and laughing at the people scrambling and pilfering their children's college funds for but a glimpse of this elusive work of literature?
Which brings be to my next question - how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?
The world may never know.
I have to admire J.K. Rowling for her somewhat eclectic strategies. Genius, J.K., absolutely genius.
Dog the Bounty Hunter Gets Cancelled
"I did not mean to add yet another slap in the face to an entire race of people who have brought so many gifts to this world."
Wait, I'm confused. He tells his son that he has no problem with the fact that his girlfriend is black, yet calls her the N word 6 times in a phone conversation? Okay, he says he's not referring to her color, but her character - which is somewhat understandable - but why did he automatically call her the N word, instead of any number of other, not as racist but just as illustrative, words?
I enjoy (or should I say enjoyED) watching Dog the Bounty Hunter, but for someone who has so much Ohana for everyone, I have to say I'm more than disappointed.
I'm aware that this conversation with his son was (and should have stayed) personal between the two of them, and that the media takes anything they can find and blows it to epic proportions. I get it. But I'm tired of hearing all these people who seem wonderful spout off racist and sexist slurs. Just like Mel Gibson, a self-professed Christian, making anti-Semetic statements after too many drinks.
At least Halle Berry's comment about "her Jewish cousin" was an innocent repeat of what her friend - who is Jewish - had said. It may not have been appropriate, but it's not her fault no one knew the whole story behind it.
But wait - there's more! Here's part of what Duane "Dog the Bounty Hunter" Chapman said to his son:
"I'm not taking a chance...not because she's black but because we use the word n---er sometimes here. I'm not going to take any chance ever in life of losing everything I've worked for 30 years because some drunken n---er heard us say n---er and turned us into the Enquirer magazine...I'm not taking that chance at all never in life. Never..."
Uh, yea. *Irony* Didn't this story break in the Enquirer? "Never." Riiiight.
Sorry Dog, you shouldn't be using the word in the first place.
So again, we have a person who thoughlessly let their mouth override their brain, and will have "Bigot" tattood on their forehead for all eternity. Thanks for the apologies, but I don't think this will go away so easily.
Wait, I'm confused. He tells his son that he has no problem with the fact that his girlfriend is black, yet calls her the N word 6 times in a phone conversation? Okay, he says he's not referring to her color, but her character - which is somewhat understandable - but why did he automatically call her the N word, instead of any number of other, not as racist but just as illustrative, words?
I enjoy (or should I say enjoyED) watching Dog the Bounty Hunter, but for someone who has so much Ohana for everyone, I have to say I'm more than disappointed.
I'm aware that this conversation with his son was (and should have stayed) personal between the two of them, and that the media takes anything they can find and blows it to epic proportions. I get it. But I'm tired of hearing all these people who seem wonderful spout off racist and sexist slurs. Just like Mel Gibson, a self-professed Christian, making anti-Semetic statements after too many drinks.
At least Halle Berry's comment about "her Jewish cousin" was an innocent repeat of what her friend - who is Jewish - had said. It may not have been appropriate, but it's not her fault no one knew the whole story behind it.
But wait - there's more! Here's part of what Duane "Dog the Bounty Hunter" Chapman said to his son:
"I'm not taking a chance...not because she's black but because we use the word n---er sometimes here. I'm not going to take any chance ever in life of losing everything I've worked for 30 years because some drunken n---er heard us say n---er and turned us into the Enquirer magazine...I'm not taking that chance at all never in life. Never..."
Uh, yea. *Irony* Didn't this story break in the Enquirer? "Never." Riiiight.
Sorry Dog, you shouldn't be using the word in the first place.
So again, we have a person who thoughlessly let their mouth override their brain, and will have "Bigot" tattood on their forehead for all eternity. Thanks for the apologies, but I don't think this will go away so easily.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Conspiracy Theory #273 - Pogo Games and the Procrastination Bug
I'll admit it.
My name is Sandra, and I'm addicted to Pogo Games.
It all started a few months ago when I was sitting at my computer mulling over what to write about, that dreaded Writer's Block taunting me with bits of information I had absolutely nothing I could do with.
I thought, maybe if I don't think about it for a while, I can get past it.
So, I did a search on "free online games," and here I am now.
Now, before you point out that I'm writing now, let me tell you that I have Word Whomp minimized in another window.
I'm so ashamed.
I tried justifying it by telling myself that if it's a word game, I'm not procrasintaing, I'm simply stirring the creative juices (boy, what a gross mental image - but I digress). Then I started getting that look from my husband every time I told him I was *ahem* working, and he'd look over my shoulder and see Bookworm flashing on my screen. "What?" I'd say. "I'm just taking a break."
...and then 2 hours later - "What? I'm brainstorming. What do you mean Hog Heaven Slots has nothing to do with writing? Pffft."
And yes, you guessed it - I got duped into the "Free Trial Club Membership." Twice. If my credit cards actually had anything on them, I'd be in trouble.
Curse you, Pogo Games, for making procrastination so darn easy.
My name is Sandra, and I'm addicted to Pogo Games.
It all started a few months ago when I was sitting at my computer mulling over what to write about, that dreaded Writer's Block taunting me with bits of information I had absolutely nothing I could do with.
I thought, maybe if I don't think about it for a while, I can get past it.
So, I did a search on "free online games," and here I am now.
Now, before you point out that I'm writing now, let me tell you that I have Word Whomp minimized in another window.
I'm so ashamed.
I tried justifying it by telling myself that if it's a word game, I'm not procrasintaing, I'm simply stirring the creative juices (boy, what a gross mental image - but I digress). Then I started getting that look from my husband every time I told him I was *ahem* working, and he'd look over my shoulder and see Bookworm flashing on my screen. "What?" I'd say. "I'm just taking a break."
...and then 2 hours later - "What? I'm brainstorming. What do you mean Hog Heaven Slots has nothing to do with writing? Pffft."
And yes, you guessed it - I got duped into the "Free Trial Club Membership." Twice. If my credit cards actually had anything on them, I'd be in trouble.
Curse you, Pogo Games, for making procrastination so darn easy.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Ah, Football
{Originally written in 2007. Edited to remove any references to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and to include Sheldon Cooper because, well, why the hell not?}.
It seems that it's football season, and the world will come to a cataclysmic end if all men are not glued to their televisions all day every Sunday to watch it.
Now, I don't dislike football, I just can't stand to watch it on tv. Don't ask me why, just quirky I guess. Maybe if I got a giant foam finger for home use and a screaming hot dog vendor to stand at the door, I might be a little more apt to perch myself on the couch and cheer for whatever team I dislike the least.
That's the other thing. Men will watch a football game regardless of whether their favorite team is playing. In fact, I've seen men growl over the remote just so they can watch a game involving two teams that they HATE. Why? I have no idea. Is there testosterone seeping from the screen, sending our men into virtual Nirvana with every touchdown?
I guess that's one of the mysteries of the Universe that women will never know.
Myself, I'll tolerate a day of football. I secretly don't loathe it as much as people may think, I just like watching them foam at the mouth when I pretend to reach for the remote. Honestly, I wouldn't know a legendary coach if I saw one. I don't know who won Super Bowl XVI, and I'm not really sure what a Nickel Defense is.
Me, I'm in it for the tight ends.
Bazinga!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Conspiracy Theory #25 - Inherited Insanity
My Mom used to tell me that insanity was inherited - you get it from your children.
And to think I didn't believe her.
When I was a child, my imaginary world wasn’t limited to Barbie kingdoms and unicorns and frogs that, for whatever reason, would magically become handsome princes when you kissed them. Quite often, I was onstage as a world famous rock star, or I was designing beautiful and complex houses (to a 5 year old, that is) as an architect. I even dug up ancient dinosaur bone once as an archeologist (which my Dad convinced me, after an hour and a half of arguing, was only an old dried up pork chop bone).
Most often though, I donned a raggedy brown and white baby blanket around my neck and was Supergirl, Defender of All that was Fair and Just.
Following in the family tradition of superhero pretend, my oldest daughter has become Captain Obvious.
Only, she’s not pretending.
Oh sure, it was cute for the first little while. I realized that, like most children, my daughter is very intelligent and only wanted to flex her intellectual muscles for all to see.
It only became a problem when normal conversation (keep in mind that she’s 5 – I use the term “normal conversation” loosely) became completely impossible with her. For anyone who doesn’t have children, a typical conversation with my daughter goes something like this:
“Sweetheart, tell me what happened to the lamp.”
“Momma…the lamp is broken.”
“I see that it’s broken, what happened?”
“It’s broken.”
Sigh. “Yes, I know it’s broken, how did it get broken?”
This can go on for hours – and this isn’t the worst case scenario. My daughter pops out with random statements of unmistakable perception at any and all times. “Momma, that’s your shirt,” and “Momma, I sit on the couch” are common, as well as “Momma, look, my nose” and “Momma, I farted,” even though I’m sure everyone for two counties heard it.
With as much attention to detail as this child displays, it amazes me how often she forgets her pants in the mornings.
So, like any other obnoxious habit my children pick up, I’ll just breathe deeply and tell myself repeatedly that she’ll grow out of it…I hope.
Come to think of it, my Mom also used to tell me she hoped I would grow up and have kids that drove me twice as crazy as I drove her.
Thanks Mom.
And to think I didn't believe her.
When I was a child, my imaginary world wasn’t limited to Barbie kingdoms and unicorns and frogs that, for whatever reason, would magically become handsome princes when you kissed them. Quite often, I was onstage as a world famous rock star, or I was designing beautiful and complex houses (to a 5 year old, that is) as an architect. I even dug up ancient dinosaur bone once as an archeologist (which my Dad convinced me, after an hour and a half of arguing, was only an old dried up pork chop bone).
Most often though, I donned a raggedy brown and white baby blanket around my neck and was Supergirl, Defender of All that was Fair and Just.
Following in the family tradition of superhero pretend, my oldest daughter has become Captain Obvious.
Only, she’s not pretending.
Oh sure, it was cute for the first little while. I realized that, like most children, my daughter is very intelligent and only wanted to flex her intellectual muscles for all to see.
It only became a problem when normal conversation (keep in mind that she’s 5 – I use the term “normal conversation” loosely) became completely impossible with her. For anyone who doesn’t have children, a typical conversation with my daughter goes something like this:
“Sweetheart, tell me what happened to the lamp.”
“Momma…the lamp is broken.”
“I see that it’s broken, what happened?”
“It’s broken.”
Sigh. “Yes, I know it’s broken, how did it get broken?”
This can go on for hours – and this isn’t the worst case scenario. My daughter pops out with random statements of unmistakable perception at any and all times. “Momma, that’s your shirt,” and “Momma, I sit on the couch” are common, as well as “Momma, look, my nose” and “Momma, I farted,” even though I’m sure everyone for two counties heard it.
With as much attention to detail as this child displays, it amazes me how often she forgets her pants in the mornings.
So, like any other obnoxious habit my children pick up, I’ll just breathe deeply and tell myself repeatedly that she’ll grow out of it…I hope.
Come to think of it, my Mom also used to tell me she hoped I would grow up and have kids that drove me twice as crazy as I drove her.
Thanks Mom.
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