Well, fake Hurricane Ida breezed through. And I got rid of one child--I mean one of my angels went back to school today (sniff.) The other one is home in honor of Veterans' Day. This day, while clearly only a token of appreciation to everyone who serves in the military, is a mystery to me.
First, it is mispunctuated to the point of ridicule. Veterans' Day=day to honor all veterans. Veteran's Day=day to honor one veteran. The entire universe needs a refresher on the use of the apostrophe, and how a) to use it with plural/singular agreement and b) it has nothing AT ALL to do with plurals.
Second, veterans everywhere have most often transitioned to non-military jobs. They are doctors, lawyers, firefighters, engineers, professionals and non professionals alike. MOST OF THOSE PEOPLE ARE WORKING TODAY. A few veterans who went into the Postal Service are stoked, and those who became bankers are good, but the rest of them are WORKING. What the hell kind of holiday is that? S is not in school (he's too young to even enlist, although I have considered compulsory service in a military academy). How does sitting at home and watching cartoons today honor veterans? M is working, and many of his non-traditional students have served in the armed forces. They're going to school.
Don't get me wrong. I am all about honoring veterans. But is canceling school and offering free breakfast at restaurant chains what we had in mind?
Before I digress into a totally political tirade (of which most would agree, so why preach to the choir?) let me just say, I would like to honor veterans by sending BOTH of my children to school. Watching a giant-headed octopus trying to catch a firefly with his tremendously stumpy and disproportionate arms really isn't a salute to the ultimate sacrifice. (Translation for non-parents: S is watching Oswald, an "educational" cartoon voiced by Fred Savage.)
Unless today is ALSO International Parents' Day. Which of course, would never be celebrated by allowing children home from school. Instead, it would involve hordes of babysitters in everyone's homes, chauffering services, launderers and work substitutes, and lots and lots of martinis. Which, come to think of it would be a nice way to let vets take the day off, too.
Don your poppies and your yellow ribbons, and hug a veteran today.
Even if you have your kids in tow.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Weather Day Rules
Unexpected days home are even worse than weekend. First, kids expect everything to be a giant amusement park. I should relax all rules, guidelines and expectations. Second, I have no plans for them. I was taken off guard, don't want them here, and can't send them outside. Even if it has completely stopped raining, I think it is poor form to allow children to play outside if school has been canceled due to weather.
In fact, the rules are more stringent on unexpected days off: I am adopting a punish first, ask questions second policy.
There will be no:
bickering
poking
pestering
bothering
whining
wrestling
fighting
needling
throwing
running
arguing
disobeying
disrupting
sassing
ignoring
touching
groping
yelling
skipping
screaming
being uncooperative
confronting
debating
OR
in any other way annoying me today.
Any infractions will result in death.
Immediately.
In fact, the rules are more stringent on unexpected days off: I am adopting a punish first, ask questions second policy.
There will be no:
bickering
poking
pestering
bothering
whining
wrestling
fighting
needling
throwing
running
arguing
disobeying
disrupting
sassing
ignoring
touching
groping
yelling
skipping
screaming
being uncooperative
confronting
debating
OR
in any other way annoying me today.
Any infractions will result in death.
Immediately.
Monday, November 9, 2009
From WeatherChannel
Weathergirl, NotCinnamon: I'm standing here in the rain, Anchorman Joe. It's raining.
Anchorman Joe: So, WNC, is it raining there?
WNC: Yes, Joe. It IS raining here. And it is also supposed to be windy.
AJ: IS it windy?
WNC: No, Joe. It is raining.
AJ: It sounds awful.
WNC: It IS awful. Mobile is canceling schools because it is raining.
AJ: That sounds like a good precaution, WNC. I mean, you never know WHAT can happen when you mix children and rain.
WNC: You betcha, Joe. Kids could get wet. Or splash in puddles. Or get wet. And I bet there's a tie-in to Swine Flu somewhere here, Joe.
AJ: So, to summarize, it's raining and schools are closed.
WNC: Yup.
AJ: Thank you for that information. What will children be doing since there is no school on Tuesday now, WNC?
WNC: Well, I suspect they will be driving their mothers insane. They won't be able to play outside because of aforementioned rain, and cable may be out because of the (you know) RAIN, and those houses with DirecTV will be absolutely screwed. And, of course, those children who are ALSO out for Veterans' Day will be driving their parents insane for a midweek weekend, as it were.
AJ: Surely, that sounds like a plan, WNC. Those children are resourceful, and thank goodness they won't have to sit in dry classrooms when it is raining out.
WNC: Indeed, Joe.
AJ: So, what will mothers be doing while the remnants of the remnants of Ida rain down upon us?
WNC: Well, Joe, according to my sources, the mothers will be drinking heavily, regardless of the time of day. Indeed, since it is dark and cloudy, it might as well be 5 PM.
AJ: Mothers certainly aren't as resourceful as children. But, let's hope that plan works for them. I mean rain isn't something to be taken lightly.
WNC: Sure isn't, Joe. It is both wet and wet.
AJ: Well, we hope for everyone's sake, that everyone survives the rain.
WNC: We have heard from our sources that it is very likely that everyone will survive the rain, but that it is entirely possible that children and/or their mothers might not survive being inside for the next two days.
AJ: Indeed. Thank you for mentioning that, WNC. That is certainly one of the under-mentioned tragedies of rain.
WNC: Indeed, Joe. Tragic.
AJ (shaking his head): Tragic. Rain. Remnants of remnants of a hurricane. Tragic.
Anchorman Joe: So, WNC, is it raining there?
WNC: Yes, Joe. It IS raining here. And it is also supposed to be windy.
AJ: IS it windy?
WNC: No, Joe. It is raining.
AJ: It sounds awful.
WNC: It IS awful. Mobile is canceling schools because it is raining.
AJ: That sounds like a good precaution, WNC. I mean, you never know WHAT can happen when you mix children and rain.
WNC: You betcha, Joe. Kids could get wet. Or splash in puddles. Or get wet. And I bet there's a tie-in to Swine Flu somewhere here, Joe.
AJ: So, to summarize, it's raining and schools are closed.
WNC: Yup.
AJ: Thank you for that information. What will children be doing since there is no school on Tuesday now, WNC?
WNC: Well, I suspect they will be driving their mothers insane. They won't be able to play outside because of aforementioned rain, and cable may be out because of the (you know) RAIN, and those houses with DirecTV will be absolutely screwed. And, of course, those children who are ALSO out for Veterans' Day will be driving their parents insane for a midweek weekend, as it were.
AJ: Surely, that sounds like a plan, WNC. Those children are resourceful, and thank goodness they won't have to sit in dry classrooms when it is raining out.
WNC: Indeed, Joe.
AJ: So, what will mothers be doing while the remnants of the remnants of Ida rain down upon us?
WNC: Well, Joe, according to my sources, the mothers will be drinking heavily, regardless of the time of day. Indeed, since it is dark and cloudy, it might as well be 5 PM.
AJ: Mothers certainly aren't as resourceful as children. But, let's hope that plan works for them. I mean rain isn't something to be taken lightly.
WNC: Sure isn't, Joe. It is both wet and wet.
AJ: Well, we hope for everyone's sake, that everyone survives the rain.
WNC: We have heard from our sources that it is very likely that everyone will survive the rain, but that it is entirely possible that children and/or their mothers might not survive being inside for the next two days.
AJ: Indeed. Thank you for mentioning that, WNC. That is certainly one of the under-mentioned tragedies of rain.
WNC: Indeed, Joe. Tragic.
AJ (shaking his head): Tragic. Rain. Remnants of remnants of a hurricane. Tragic.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Don't move it like that, or, Why I have so few friends
Cici calls me today and tells me this horrible saga about a near-accident in the Megamart parking lot today. And she tells me (me, of all people!) that she worries she lacked compassion for the party involved in the story.
Compassion. Clearly, Cici calls me because she subconsciously wants reaffirmation in the lack of compassion department. She could have called Hitler and received lessons in compassion. But, no. She called me.
I consider my weakness in compassion to be genetic. Ironically, I would say, my sister and I have adopted a zero tolerance policy toward humanity. No Three Strikes. No mulligans. No exceptions. If you somehow demonstrate weakness, frailty, or incompetence you might as well forget it. If you can't accept your failure with grace and a martini, well then, we're not interested in your story. Don't come to us for compassion. Being the daughters of a shrink, I think I speak for both of us when I say our lack of compassion can be traced back to childhood. My parents, polar opposites on the compassion scale, treated us with either doting love or a shrug and a word about gumption. "If it hurts when you go like this, don't go like this." (I am not sure if this is related to my sister's subsequent hypochondria, but it would be an interesting sideline.)
So Cici's freaked out driver was traumatized by a non-near-accident, and couldn't pull herself together. Now, I say. You don't need to call the woman's family. She accepts potential risks of driving by driving. No one was hurt, nearly hurt, or even sort of nearly hurt and neither were their vehicles. So. Pull yourself together, woman, and move on.
Everyone feels as though they are the center of their own universe. And here we are, carrying our giant universes around like bubbles around us. And if that disproportionately huge universe receives a nick (maybe because it was soo huge), everyone freaks. We need to reduce our universes to solar systems, and insulate ourselves a little less. There are plenty of people on this planet who need our compassion, I'm thinking that some one owning an automobile and driving through the MegaMart parking lot is not high on the global list. And yes, I think compassion should be meted out on a relative amount. Compassion is related to deep sorrow and tragedy.
Now, the next time I come whining to you about how I gained four pounds, hand me a martini and say, "stop eating."
Compassion. Clearly, Cici calls me because she subconsciously wants reaffirmation in the lack of compassion department. She could have called Hitler and received lessons in compassion. But, no. She called me.
I consider my weakness in compassion to be genetic. Ironically, I would say, my sister and I have adopted a zero tolerance policy toward humanity. No Three Strikes. No mulligans. No exceptions. If you somehow demonstrate weakness, frailty, or incompetence you might as well forget it. If you can't accept your failure with grace and a martini, well then, we're not interested in your story. Don't come to us for compassion. Being the daughters of a shrink, I think I speak for both of us when I say our lack of compassion can be traced back to childhood. My parents, polar opposites on the compassion scale, treated us with either doting love or a shrug and a word about gumption. "If it hurts when you go like this, don't go like this." (I am not sure if this is related to my sister's subsequent hypochondria, but it would be an interesting sideline.)
So Cici's freaked out driver was traumatized by a non-near-accident, and couldn't pull herself together. Now, I say. You don't need to call the woman's family. She accepts potential risks of driving by driving. No one was hurt, nearly hurt, or even sort of nearly hurt and neither were their vehicles. So. Pull yourself together, woman, and move on.
Everyone feels as though they are the center of their own universe. And here we are, carrying our giant universes around like bubbles around us. And if that disproportionately huge universe receives a nick (maybe because it was soo huge), everyone freaks. We need to reduce our universes to solar systems, and insulate ourselves a little less. There are plenty of people on this planet who need our compassion, I'm thinking that some one owning an automobile and driving through the MegaMart parking lot is not high on the global list. And yes, I think compassion should be meted out on a relative amount. Compassion is related to deep sorrow and tragedy.
Now, the next time I come whining to you about how I gained four pounds, hand me a martini and say, "stop eating."
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Ten reasons why parenting bugs me today
I'm not what I would call vain. Especially. Or maybe I am, but no more so than before I had kids. Obviously, I've let some things slide. My size 4s are in the rear view mirror, as are perfectly retouched highlights. Make up? Oh, that stuff I put on before going out to dinner with grown ups. Or to the OB appointment. Blow dryer? Yeah, I own it, but it smells like fire when I turn it on, so I never get a total 'do.
But things have reached rock bottom. And tonight I draw the line. My pedicure is an abomination. The paint is all peely and chipped. The cuticles are dry and flaky. My heels? I could probably walk on hot coals these days. Bad, bad news.
I don't know what happened. Back when time was mine, dinner did not have the prefix Mac-, and the only thing that woke me on the weekends was lunch, my pedicure would NEVER have gotten this bad. I would have a pro do it on my lunch breaks, or I would do it during a football game on the weekend.
I used to do so many things, back when I had time. M and I would buy books about walks to take in our region. When we lived in Baltimore, we would go to Amish Country, or to Washington, or to Annapolis. We tried new restaurants. When we lived in Toronto, we took Maddie to the parks, go apple picking in the fall, go antique-ing, try new restaurants. And way, way, back, in Evanston, we'd go to football games, long campus walks, and try new restaurants.
A new franchise of Chic-Fil-A does not count as a new restaurant, the kids whine after one lap around the cul de sac, and I can't think of my last day trip adventure (that didn't involve a zoo, or a themed musical number, or a kids' museum). What the hell happened?
My toes are just a symptom of the invasive and corrosive nature of parenting. My time, gnawed and nibbled upon, is a fraction of what it once was. My thought process, once linear and coherent, now rambles and zig zags depending on who is demanding what loudly in to which ear. I move to abolish the phrase "can I?" from my children's lexicon. My ability to recall names, dates, events--poof. Gone. I need a Garmin Navigator for my own brain.
Is my time filled with the wonder and charm of childhood? Sadly, no. Surely, there are adorable moments. And I hold on to those like Kate Winslet to a floatie. Those moments sustain us, because the bulk of the time is filled with "don't touch your brother." "Keep your hands to yourself." "Don't push your brother" and then, at full volume "I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF!!!!!!!" And then they cry. Like it's my fault! I asked nicely. Three times. And then, then they look at me with those giant Puss-N-Boots eyes, one giant tear streaming down their cheeks, and say, "you don't have to yell, Mommy."
Crap. I just can't win.
It's not that a perfect pedicure would fix this. In fact, no one ever even sees my toes because all I ever do is shuttle the kids around in the car. BUT, just the IDEA of a pedicure matters at this juncture. The idea of having the time to carefully tend to myself seems like a bigger luxury than it actually is. (Let's be honest, the cardboard diet still hasn't flattened my stomach enough to let me see my own toes, so I could ignore them). But, the idea of warm water, soaking feet, scented lotions. Ahh.
I could be doing that right now. But instead, I am going to spell check this, and then go up to bed. Luxury Smuxury.
But things have reached rock bottom. And tonight I draw the line. My pedicure is an abomination. The paint is all peely and chipped. The cuticles are dry and flaky. My heels? I could probably walk on hot coals these days. Bad, bad news.
I don't know what happened. Back when time was mine, dinner did not have the prefix Mac-, and the only thing that woke me on the weekends was lunch, my pedicure would NEVER have gotten this bad. I would have a pro do it on my lunch breaks, or I would do it during a football game on the weekend.
I used to do so many things, back when I had time. M and I would buy books about walks to take in our region. When we lived in Baltimore, we would go to Amish Country, or to Washington, or to Annapolis. We tried new restaurants. When we lived in Toronto, we took Maddie to the parks, go apple picking in the fall, go antique-ing, try new restaurants. And way, way, back, in Evanston, we'd go to football games, long campus walks, and try new restaurants.
A new franchise of Chic-Fil-A does not count as a new restaurant, the kids whine after one lap around the cul de sac, and I can't think of my last day trip adventure (that didn't involve a zoo, or a themed musical number, or a kids' museum). What the hell happened?
My toes are just a symptom of the invasive and corrosive nature of parenting. My time, gnawed and nibbled upon, is a fraction of what it once was. My thought process, once linear and coherent, now rambles and zig zags depending on who is demanding what loudly in to which ear. I move to abolish the phrase "can I?" from my children's lexicon. My ability to recall names, dates, events--poof. Gone. I need a Garmin Navigator for my own brain.
Is my time filled with the wonder and charm of childhood? Sadly, no. Surely, there are adorable moments. And I hold on to those like Kate Winslet to a floatie. Those moments sustain us, because the bulk of the time is filled with "don't touch your brother." "Keep your hands to yourself." "Don't push your brother" and then, at full volume "I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF!!!!!!!" And then they cry. Like it's my fault! I asked nicely. Three times. And then, then they look at me with those giant Puss-N-Boots eyes, one giant tear streaming down their cheeks, and say, "you don't have to yell, Mommy."
Crap. I just can't win.
It's not that a perfect pedicure would fix this. In fact, no one ever even sees my toes because all I ever do is shuttle the kids around in the car. BUT, just the IDEA of a pedicure matters at this juncture. The idea of having the time to carefully tend to myself seems like a bigger luxury than it actually is. (Let's be honest, the cardboard diet still hasn't flattened my stomach enough to let me see my own toes, so I could ignore them). But, the idea of warm water, soaking feet, scented lotions. Ahh.
I could be doing that right now. But instead, I am going to spell check this, and then go up to bed. Luxury Smuxury.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Ten days on the radar
I don't want to alarm you, but Friday, among the discounted Halloween bins, there was (brace yourself) a whole lotta Christmas crap.
My sister and her husband, Type A Extraordinaires, phoned me from an actual store (not their office, in front of the computer) to verify Hanukah gifts for my kids.
The grocery store had a sign urging me to order holiday hams now.
No.
I refuse.
I decline to be shuttled from holiday to holiday by the retail Powers That Be. I don't want to be immersed in the list-making, last minute shopping, teacher gift forgetting chaos that is the holidays. IN NOVEMBER.
I don't want anything ahead of me except Veteran's Day. That is 10 days from now. I will put on a poppy, tie a yellow ribbon, and pay respect to the honorable veterans of this and other countries. I can do that. I can feel in control for a ten day plan ahead schedule.
I might even go so far as to be able to look to November 19th, when my parents come to town. I can think of the things that need cleaning, and the organizing to do.
That's it. My limit. 2 weeks and 4 days.
Damn you, stock market expectations for retailers. Stupid shop-ahead-and-save sales. Ridiculous buy buy buy mentality. There are literally shelves full of Snuggies for Pets with signs plastered everywhere: makes a great gift!!!!!! (Exclamation marks not mine.)
Just to let you know, if you ARE going to the stupid shop-ahead-and-save sales, or ARE of the buy buy buy mentality: don't buy me a Snuggie for Clooney. He has fur, like all lovable pets (who wants a bald chihuahua?), and doesn't need a blanket, much less a blanket with sleeves, since he doesn't read, or do crosswords, or use the remote control, and therefore doesn't need his paws free.
Snuggies DO NOT make great gifts!!!!!! (Exclamation marks mine.)
SO. I am breaking out my inner Scrooge in concert with the ever-earlier Christmas Marketing Extravaganza. I will not be proceeding into the holiday melee until Hanukah or Christmas (whichever comes first) is 2 weeks and 4 days away.
Until then, have an emotionally appropriate Veteran's Day.
My sister and her husband, Type A Extraordinaires, phoned me from an actual store (not their office, in front of the computer) to verify Hanukah gifts for my kids.
The grocery store had a sign urging me to order holiday hams now.
No.
I refuse.
I decline to be shuttled from holiday to holiday by the retail Powers That Be. I don't want to be immersed in the list-making, last minute shopping, teacher gift forgetting chaos that is the holidays. IN NOVEMBER.
I don't want anything ahead of me except Veteran's Day. That is 10 days from now. I will put on a poppy, tie a yellow ribbon, and pay respect to the honorable veterans of this and other countries. I can do that. I can feel in control for a ten day plan ahead schedule.
I might even go so far as to be able to look to November 19th, when my parents come to town. I can think of the things that need cleaning, and the organizing to do.
That's it. My limit. 2 weeks and 4 days.
Damn you, stock market expectations for retailers. Stupid shop-ahead-and-save sales. Ridiculous buy buy buy mentality. There are literally shelves full of Snuggies for Pets with signs plastered everywhere: makes a great gift!!!!!! (Exclamation marks not mine.)
Just to let you know, if you ARE going to the stupid shop-ahead-and-save sales, or ARE of the buy buy buy mentality: don't buy me a Snuggie for Clooney. He has fur, like all lovable pets (who wants a bald chihuahua?), and doesn't need a blanket, much less a blanket with sleeves, since he doesn't read, or do crosswords, or use the remote control, and therefore doesn't need his paws free.
Snuggies DO NOT make great gifts!!!!!! (Exclamation marks mine.)
SO. I am breaking out my inner Scrooge in concert with the ever-earlier Christmas Marketing Extravaganza. I will not be proceeding into the holiday melee until Hanukah or Christmas (whichever comes first) is 2 weeks and 4 days away.
Until then, have an emotionally appropriate Veteran's Day.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
All Hallow's Over
Halloween is theoretically a holiday for children. We know this because it is a holiday set up with a two sided power structure. Us vs. Them. Kids vs. grown ups. Pros vs. Cons. It is the only holiday that comes with built in arguments.
Can I wear this ghoulish freaky costumes with weeping wounds and dangling eyeballs?
No.
Can I arm myself to the teeth and bring 45 different types of knives, assault weapons, scythes, lasers, swords, blasters, and daggers to school for the costume parade?
No.
Can I roam the streets of this town at night, clad entirely in black knocking on strangers' doors by myself?
No.
Can I eat my weight in candy, including the disgusting year-old Werther Originals that the octogenarian neighbor fished out of the candy dish on her coffee table because she forgot to turn out the lights on the front porch and therefore wasn't expecting trick-or-treaters?
No.
So, we go around and 'round over the freaking Halloween crap. And I realize that only a child could get excited about this stupid holiday. But, no.
I've seen grown adults with glow in the dark skeleton earrings. Not small ones, either. Giant, shoulder-grazing skeleton earrings.
Patchwork sweatshirts. My Christmas favorite, theme clothing, also seems to have a significant Halloween constituency. Black gingham cats on purple t-shirts. Embroidered witches with witticisms like, "just wait 'til I get my broom!" Knitted sweaters with pockets. Flashing necklaces.
This doesn't even begin to cover the issue of adult costumes. Which I refuse to address because of my denial.
But the thing is, last night I got 3 trick-or-treaters. THREE! So, if this is a holiday for kids, and their grown ups are equally enthusiastic, where the hell were all the kids? Next year, I am going to tell my boys that trick or treat has been canceled, and I'll give them the giant bag of candy I usually buy for trick-or-treaters, we'll watch TV, hang a black sheet over the door so no one knows we're home, and just be done with the whole damn thing.
Argument over. Thankfully, so is the holiday. And I don't have to worry about it again until the costume catalogs come in the mail next August.
This plan does nothing to relieve me of a giant bag of candy that is specifically not permitted on the cardboard diet. Milk Duds, anyone?
Can I wear this ghoulish freaky costumes with weeping wounds and dangling eyeballs?
No.
Can I arm myself to the teeth and bring 45 different types of knives, assault weapons, scythes, lasers, swords, blasters, and daggers to school for the costume parade?
No.
Can I roam the streets of this town at night, clad entirely in black knocking on strangers' doors by myself?
No.
Can I eat my weight in candy, including the disgusting year-old Werther Originals that the octogenarian neighbor fished out of the candy dish on her coffee table because she forgot to turn out the lights on the front porch and therefore wasn't expecting trick-or-treaters?
No.
So, we go around and 'round over the freaking Halloween crap. And I realize that only a child could get excited about this stupid holiday. But, no.
I've seen grown adults with glow in the dark skeleton earrings. Not small ones, either. Giant, shoulder-grazing skeleton earrings.
Patchwork sweatshirts. My Christmas favorite, theme clothing, also seems to have a significant Halloween constituency. Black gingham cats on purple t-shirts. Embroidered witches with witticisms like, "just wait 'til I get my broom!" Knitted sweaters with pockets. Flashing necklaces.
This doesn't even begin to cover the issue of adult costumes. Which I refuse to address because of my denial.
But the thing is, last night I got 3 trick-or-treaters. THREE! So, if this is a holiday for kids, and their grown ups are equally enthusiastic, where the hell were all the kids? Next year, I am going to tell my boys that trick or treat has been canceled, and I'll give them the giant bag of candy I usually buy for trick-or-treaters, we'll watch TV, hang a black sheet over the door so no one knows we're home, and just be done with the whole damn thing.
Argument over. Thankfully, so is the holiday. And I don't have to worry about it again until the costume catalogs come in the mail next August.
This plan does nothing to relieve me of a giant bag of candy that is specifically not permitted on the cardboard diet. Milk Duds, anyone?
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