Sigh. I’m just devastated. Devastated and yet, as Spicoli once said, “Totally Stoked Dude”. A few days ago, we got the call…from the kids’ future school. They wanted to confirm that our kids would be attending kindergarten in the fall, and since they are twins, would we prefer they be separated or in the same class. I paused for a slight moment, because really, am I old enough and responsible enough to make these decisions? When did all that happen? “Separate them” Uggh.
So, now I’m dealing with my own disorder. (I now feel I have a social responsibility to use the word “disorder” out of context as much as possible.) In just two months, my kids will go to their elementary school for a visit. I’m working up a sweet schedule for getting them to school, stocking up the martini bar and chocolate. I think I might start a mommy’s group for school aged kids where we can party like it’s 1999. That was a good year.
I’ll have new and upgraded mom responsibilities like, making their lunches and getting them to school on time. The mommy grapevine reports that the schools have pretty strict policies on traffic flow and getting little Bobby and Susie dropped off and picked up correctly. I’m getting test anxiety just thinking about it. More importantly, I’ve quizzed the kid across the street, and it turns out, that I should expect my sweet little ones to bring home homework even in kindergarten. I am fairly certain I can help them with it until about the 3rd grade. Then they are on their own, I’m out.
That’s how I roll.
The other night I had another dream about my dad. It was a sad one, and I just woke up sad. I hadn’t even had my coffee yet to neutralize the vodka. So, clearly, I wasn’t awake enough to remember the dream or that I was sad, when my 4 year_old son came up to me and this is VERBATIM what he said, I kid you not. I have witnesses:
In his man_voice (He lowers his tone when he really wants to be serious): “Mommy, I’m REALLY sorry your dad died.” I bent down and picked him up in a big bear hug. We stood there while the kid just patted my back so softly.
It’s been a year and a half since my dad died. Max walked right up to me and said it, so sweet. So sincere. It was the sweetest moment of heartbreak and clarity.
That’s how I roll.
I’m watching a teaser for the local news today, and they are really riding the words “disorder” just a little too hard. “Understand your child’s disorder. You can do something about it. Help them overcome your DISORDER.” Tease tease tease. What’s the disorder? More about overcoming it, how it can go undetected. Blah blah blah. And then they drop the bombshell: Shyness. This just ticked me off. So, I feel obligated to whip out my soapbox…
SHYNESS IS NOW DISORDER!? Screw off. Puhlease, people. I’m guessing someone wrote a book. And if this someone is a scientist, master of something, or dorcto of something, and did a study on shyness, it must be true.
I’m conducting a study of my own. It’s very hands on, it’s called Motherhood. And it goes a little something like this: your children are a reflection of yourself. Yes they are. Yes they are. YES THEY ARE! For example, I’m simplistic and insensitive to people with excuses, just like my father. I have his same expressions and facial expressions. I love road trips and I love to watch tv. I also love to fall asleep in the recliner. All of which my father was passionate about. On the flip side, I’m wacky, random artistically silly and one heck of a cook. Thank you, Mom.
My children take a tone with me and I want to lock myself in a closet and cry because they got it with me.
So, without further ado, let’s pull our head out of the sand for a minute and address a few issues that have just fallen by the wayside:
_Shyness is a reflection of what you are doing to your child. It is NOT a disorder. In MY research, I’ve observed this more than I cared to. The parent is so shy, it’s rude. I say hello to this one lady each week, and I get a glare. The child is meerly learning by what you’re doing. Monkey see, monkey do, people. I do understand that I’m the total opposite of shy. Even so, if I chose to speak all the time for my children, I ultimately could be creating a shy child.
_ “I learned it from you, dad….I learned it from you!” Every child of the 80s remembers that PSA about smoking pot. The dad gets all mad and asks where he learned it. Let’s stop putting a tag like Disorders on behavioral issues and take a long hard look at what we’re doing as parents.
_They can hear every word you’re saying on the phone. Yes they can. Trust me. Get on the phone with your pal (prep the pal, or this could be awkward) tell them how to spell your son’s name. Whisper it, like you don’t want them to hear. And then a few hours later, see if he can spell his name. Or, get on the phone and start talking about Disneyworld. Again, whisper. Within a few hours you’ll be getting questions about when you’re going. It’s the only time they listen, when moms are on the phone. They hear you talking about all of their quirks, they hear the explicatives, they hear how you really feel about your in_laws. They hear it all. And depending on what exactly you’re talking about, it’s probably the reason they have been diagnosed with shyness…they are poopin their pants at all the info they have in their little heads.
At my house, we try to be as honest as possible with the kids. But we want them to make their own judgements about our freaky dysfunctional family. To come to their own conclusions. So, we try not to talk about all you folks when they are around.
_ Tag and kickball are not what is causing low self_esteem at schools. No Child Left Behind is crap. Kids need to know about success, yes. But the only way you can truly appreciate success is by experiencing failure. As a teacher I see college students expecting good grades because they are nice people. It’s a national epidemic that needs to stop. Stop the insanity people!
And stepping off soapbox, now…..
That’s how I roll.
Why I think I’m so tough, a short essay:
Last night I was peeling potatoes and I rolled that potatoe peeler right over my knuckle, taking out a large chunk of surface area formerly known as my finger. I finished peeling the potatoes. Got a bandaid. Bled through 3 bandaids. Finished dinner. Served dinner. Ate dinner. It was delicious.
That’s how I roll.
I used to lie when I was a kid to get attention from my peers. I’m sure I’m not the only one who did it, let alone admits to it, but really, I took it to an extreme. Never backed down from any lie, “Guys, I”m serious! It reeeeally happened! Just like I said, my mom took me to Disney World…in Florida…and she let me drive almost the whole way there!” So what if I was 12. Sigh. Anyways, I lied because I wanted people to like me.
I don’t know what happened, or when it happened. But now, just like ol George Washington, I “cannot tell a lie.” There are times when I wish I could. I saw Courtney Cox and her fabulous hair on Ellen the other day and she said her new years resolution is to lie more because she gets herself in trouble being too straightforward. Me too, Courtney. Oh my, we have SOOO much in common! Call me!
I’m reminded of lies, because I’m seeing it happen. Big fat stories told to me. Bold face lies. Lies so grandeur. Not either of my four_year olds could go this far.
I’m guessing, it’s in an effort to be liked. But I’ve never seen anything like this. You see, the lies being told to me are big fat lies by women about their children! “I was sitting there in the kitchen the other day, and my daughter walked over to me and counted to one thousand!”
“Uh, really, isn’t your kid 11 months old?”
“YES! ISN”T IT AMAZING!?”
Now, I know there’s a few of you out there rolling your eyes because I’ve bragged on my kids so much your head began to spin. I saw it happen. All stories I’ve told are true. Some dull and boring to other parents who have been there and done that, and know it did, indeed happen. The funny thing about my kids is how funny they are. Or, maybe how funny I think they are. My point is, there’s no reason to lie about your kids. They’re fabulous already. No need to. So, please stop the insanity. You’re going to give your kid a complex. And you’re not fooling anyone…we’re moms. We know things.
This has been a public service announcement for the society of moms of cute kids. Brought to you by Mom On The Rocks.
That’s how I roll.
I went to a Southern Living party. For those of you out of the loop, it’s one of those “at_home hostess order out of a catalogue” parties. It’s predominantly for women, although, I’m sure if men wanted to, they could attend. They’d see right through the bullshit and ambiance of it all and then that would ruin it, now wouldn’t it.
When I go to any hostess party as such, I’m planning on buying something. Per my budget, it might just be an orange peeler. But I know I’m going in buying something. It’s like going to a party with no gift. Big fat no_no.
I got something that resembles a toothbrush holder that promises to help you arrange your flowers. We’ll see how all that goes. I’d been warned that Southern Living stuff was expensive, but really. It is! Not even an orange peeler option for scapegoats like me. Still, I’m in anxious anticipation for the toothbrush holder/flower arranger.
Ricardo knows that I enjoy these gatherings and go with intent for food, fun, fellowship and the occasional purchase. Most of Southern Living stuff is dishes of which we are overstocked in every possible dish you could imagine. The other stuff I was interested in, Ricardo has proven that he can make for me, or I can go get it at Pier 1 or Target for about 1/4 the price. A gathering as such of women guarantees you’ll learn something. Even if that something is that you are indeed the only normal mom on the planet, it’s still an educational device of sorts, yes? Since I go for the ambiance and the food, without further ado, here is what I learned at this party:
1. Cabela socks have a LIFETIME GUARANTEE. I’m so on this.
2. Southern Living charges a flat $6 shipping and handling fee for each purchase made. Oddly enough, the item I ordered will not be shipped, nor handled to my doorstep. Interesting.
3. You can serve apple cider in a crock pot. Given that the temperature outside is 10 degrees right now, and I can not get warm enough, I’m considering the crock pot be a permanent fixture on my countertop for this very purpose. There’s no need to wait for guests, I’ll have it all for me.
4. There’s a NEW hostess/catalog gig out there that is going to be sweet liberation at my house: WALL LETTERING! I haven’t bought any yet, but am so excited about. (Hunny, I see you rolling your eyes through this computer screen.) I wish I’d gone to the Uppercase Living party instead, (although the food and fellowship was fabulous) I can’t think of a better idea for house decor. I will have words on all walls by the end of year! YAY!
5. There are lots of moms out there looking for moms just right for them. There really is some kind of great need for a moms dating service, just like the one I met my Julz at. If you move a lot, or just need to meet some moms in your area, check out this site: http://www.matchingmoms.org/ You can search moms in your area by many different factors to fit your needs. I met my match there! Holla Julz!
That’s how I roll.
One of my biggest pet pieves in my life is when we order a kids meal, and the waiter hands it to the kid and says, “Careful, it’s hot.” No wonder that sweet old lady won a gazillion dollars from McDonalds over the coffee scalding her. Are you kidding me? Why would you hand a plate to a 3 year old and make a disclaimer: “Here’s some french fries,but you’re gonna have to just look at them for a while.”
We were dining with Julz (Yes, it’s either I’m with Julz, or at the gym…or if you’re really lucky, I’m with Julz at the gym) and she’s well aware of my pieve. We had four kids in tow. So, you can imagine my delight when the waitress brought a kids plate and said:”BE EXTREMELY CAREFUL…this plate is VERY HOT!” To my four_year old. I caught glances with Julz.
It’s instances like this I really want to say something, but I’m so ridiculously angry, I have no idea how it will come out. So, this particular restaurant always has a manager come by. Here he comes. Funny how he waited until I was busy with the kids to stop by and ask the second most pet pieved question of mine, “Folks, how are WE doing here?” Well, I’m fine. Julz, you doing good? Yeah, okay, she’s fine, how about you, sir, since you included yourself in the check of our comfort level? What’s this WE stuff? If you want me to feel like you care, don’t include yourself in the question. It’s bad grammar and poor form, really. Geesh.
Well, so I’m busy with kids and food and am now insulted with the WE comment, I opt to not say anything. And that’s when my girl steps up to the plate for me. Julz, the superstar of all friendships chimes in, “Well, the kids plates were a little hot.” That’s my girl! She’s got my back. She was so polite about it, I should learn from her.
And that’s when pet pieve numero tres rocks in. “Oh, did the WAITRESS bring your kids a hot plate?” how dare she. “Did she bring you an extra plate to serve it on?”
Oh, I know you DIDN’T just put this off on someone else! First of all, you train your people to pull the food out from under the heat lamp. I’m guessing since it was spaghetti, the “cooks” put it in some kind of steaming vat or a microwave to make the plate so hot. Secondly, you’re the manager, don’t serve spaghetti on a kids menu if you can’t get it on a plate the kids can touch and the spaghetti so hot, they can’t eat. Thirdly, if that waitress had brought me an extra plate for ME to SERVE it on, I probably would have gotten all Tom Cruise on her ass and jumped on my table. I came to a restaurant so my kids could get a balloon, and so I wouldn’t have to serve nor do the dishes. Whew!
But I held back. I did try to reiterate that it was not the waitresses fault, but the protocol of the kids plates that is in DESPERATE need for review. I don’t think he got it.
What managers don’t get is that us Moms have been around the restaurant block a few times. We are veterans. Seasoned veterans. Even earning a few medals in restaurant wars. This manager, and most others, talk to us like we’re, I don’t know, like their condescending sons/daughters of a patient at an old folks home. Shame on you, you shouldn’t talk to your parents like that either!
Sigh. Thank you Julz for upping our friendship to a whole new level. And from this, I’ve decided that restaurants need a Mom Audit. I need to go in, undercover, and note all changes to be made by April 15th. I wonder if I could get paid for that? Hmmmm….
That’s how I roll.
Yep. You read it right. I feel it’s only fair to warn you that the title of this post can’t possibly offend you the way my eyes have been violated at the gym. “>The naked lady stretching in the steam room couldn’t possibly compare to what I’ve witnessed. The bitch who scared my kids has probable cause seeing as she’s just a bitter old woman with very bad roots. But this guy. This guy yesterday, at the gym. My eyes burn. They are scarred. I had nightmares lastnight.
There’s a trainer at our gym. I don’t know his name, so I refer to him as the LoudTalker. He’s in his forties I’m guessing, and built well because he’s a trainer! When I ask about him to the other trainers, they know exactly who I’m talking about and usually suggest so with, “Oh, him. Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”
By calling him LoudTalker I’m fully well aware that coming from me, it could be conceived as calling the kettle black or whatever. But that’s what I’m sayin, for me to call someone a loud talker is the perfect description because he’s louder than me, and all the time. I can tone it down. I just usually choose not to. This guy has one volume, all day.
LoudTalker has violated my opticals before. But yesterday, it just wouldn’t stop. I needed a witness, and my girl, Julz, was there with me, sweatin on some kind of crazy contraption that involves suspension and stair stepping. It’s a new cardio machine we’ve discovered. And we love it. But now, given the location of these fabulous machines, there’s a payoff: Burn fat, shirnk thighs and be blinded by dry humping. I’ve been in gyms for about 20 years now and I’ve seen a lot of trainers. I’ve seen a lot of gym stuff in my day, never like this. And poor Julz, I had to have a witness.
Right in front of us, LoudTalker has a lady client and is stretching her. He’s got dorky baggy shorts on. And he’s got the lady client on her back one leg in the air to stretch her ham string. This is how it’s supposed to look:
And that’s what he does with his man clients. But yesterday, with his lady client, he MOUNTS HER. I’m not even joking, kids. Some of you have conceived your children in this position, so you know what I’m talking about. But let me try to explain. He gets her leg up, straddles her, and is ON TOP OF HER. I’m talking this whole thing over with Julz, right in front of her, and finally, I say,
“His WEINER IS TOUCHING HER YA_YA!” I wanted to go ask if he was wearing a condom.
To make it worse, he must have stretched her for about ten minutes like that. It was awful. Don’t get me wrong, we had a good laugh at it. But since, I just feel bad for the lady. Not only had I been violated, but she had as well. She looked a little confused by the whole incident when he finally let her stand up.
And folks, I’m not just jealous. Trust me. This guy is getting his jollies off of uninformed ladies. It’s nasty. Besides, I can ask Ricardo to “give me a ham string stretch” anytime, and I’m sure he’d oblige…behind CLOSED DOORS!
Maybe I’ll get Ricardo some sessions with him and see if Ricardo can ask him to stretch him like that. Julz and I are tempted to get a session with LoudTalkerDryHumper and as soon as he starts to mount us, knee him in the nuts. It’d be worth every penny, I think.
I’ll be filing a formal written complaint to the gym on this. It’ll probably be filed with the one about the woman who yelled at my son. Considering I never got a response, I’m guessing my “file” is in the trash. I’ll be forced to get a tshirt made that says, “Read about the DRY HUMPER at momontherocks.com.” Not a bad idea.
That’s how I roll.
This is the world record holding treadmill runner. 24 hours on a treadmill. I’m guessing he had the same situation and was just more stubborn than me, and wouldn’t get off the treadmill for NO ONE! Notice the stalkers.
It wasn’t my usual time to frequent the gym, but it’s what the schedules permit. It was right around 4:45 that I noticed it was getting pretty busy with the after work crowd. I thought you normal working people didn’t get off work until 5, but I’m not one to judge. Well, I am, but, oh nevermind.
I’m on the treadmill, rocking out to some LL Cool J, doing my sweet finger dancin, in deep deliberation as to how many calories one can burn while finger dancing, when I notice a guy standing around in the cardio area. There’s an abundance of machines. And he stands there in the middle of floor waiting. Meet Treadmill Stalker Guy. Super. The longer he did it, the more I couldn’t believe what he was doing. He was waiting for a treadmill. My gym is accomodating to every possible preference of exercise equipment you can imagine. You’ve got sitting bikes, upright bikes, a rowing machine, hand pedal thingies, stair masters, stair steppers, four different types of elipticals and tread mills galore. There’s the big treadmills, I call them the BigBerthas. They are huge, and usually I don’t feel worthy of getting on one. But if that’s all that was left, I would certainly saddle up. The majority of the treadmills are another model. And that’s what this guy awaits. I know, because I checked, while running and there were 2 BigBerthas available. Mind you, there’s also an INDOOR TRACK that circles the entire workout center. And yet, he stands and stalks. At this point, I’m getting a bit ticked off. He’s right in front of me, scanning the row of runners.
I decided to get off the treadmill, let the stalker have my treadmill. I’ll show him. I’ll kill him with kindness and then blog about him. Mwaaahahaha. Just as I was about to hit the stop button, stalker turns and walks a few paces away. A new guy jumps on the treadmill next to me, but it’s broken. There’s a note explaining it’s broken, but on the front of the treadmill. So, if you do like you’re supposed to, and get on the treadmill from the back, you can’t see it. I take offf the headphones tell him it’s broken. He’s a bit embarassed. That’s when I ruthlessly kill many birds with one simple kindness stone, “No problem, you can have this one,” and with a big smile on my face, jumped off the treadmill.
I can see out of the corner of my eye, but too scaredy to look at stalker IN the eye, that he’s turned back around and is appalled that I let someone else have the coveted treadmill. But it was too late! MWWAAAHAHAH! I got him back, gave the treadmill to some other guy AND I blogged about him. Woohoo! I WIN! I WIN!
I finished out my jog on the track. As I circled, I noticed stalker_chump’s pace, once he finally got on a treadmill, was a measley 5.2 mph.His gait was, uh, well, imagine a panicked white man running with steel_toed shoes on from muggers on unsteady terrain, and there you go. Poor guy. I think it was his first day at the gym.
Thank goodness I was there to help him learn a lesson. I don’t look it, but I’ve been in lots of gyms. There’s just an assumed ettiquette.
Numero Uno: Don’t stalk the oxygen_lacking runners. It’s bad form.
Numero Two: Boys shouldn’t stare at themselves in those mirrors so much. It’s freaky when there’s all those hot chicks walking around. It really is. Really.
That’s how I roll.
After visiting a pal in Texas a few weeks ago, in sheer adoration of his carpentry skills, I told Ricardo that Max needed a loft bed like said friend had built his son. My thinking was, “We’ll go out and buy one.” Ricardo was immediately insulted. I continually forget that I’m married to MacGyver. You give the guy a pice of gum and a paper clip and he can create anything. The problem is, it takes a while for Ricardo to assume MacGyver mode. I was pretty ancy about this loft bed gig. And so I used my super_wife powers.
It went something like this:
“Have a good day at work, Baby. We’re going to go check out Nebraska Furniture Mart.”
“Uh, for what?”
“That loft bed, I’m guessing they’re having a HUGE sale since it’s Christmas and all.”
“I thought I was going to build that bed.”
“Well, I didn’t think you wanted to.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you haven’t done it. We’ll just go look around. I promise not to buy anything TODAY.”
By the end of the day, Ricardo had drawn up the designs, and had a list for all items necessary. (Hi fives to the wives out there. You know THIS process works. And if you didn’t know, now you do…Ricardo, honey, disregard all comments in paranthesis.) He was pretty excited about it, so we went to the orange store so Max could drive the race car carts. If you don’t know what the orange home improvement store is, email me and I’ll fill you in. But if you don’t know which store that is, I’m banking on the fact you probably don’t have a car, a computer, or a television. The orange home improvement store is fairly prominent and some lame_o failure of a CEO just made several hundreds of millions of dollars to leave that orange store. That’s what you do to CEO’s. They showed you, mister failure. Sigh. Eyes rolling.
Back to the bed. We got all the stuff home, I parked my sweet precious minivan outside while Ricardo worked on the bed. 3 weeks and a bitch of a snowstorm later, I woke up Sunday morning and suggested that we skip particular Sunday functions to get the bed finished. I wanted my boy to have his bed, but more importantly, my sweet minivan needed his home back. Poor thing, out there in the cold. I actually had to SCRAPE the windshield one day. Oh, the horror.
So, we committed to it. Ricardo mentioned that we just needed to get it in his room and assemble it. It’s so big, it won’t fit through the doorway. So, we clear the room and bring it up. Ricardo assembles it. Mind you, it’s got no ladder and no guard rail, but let’s let the boy test it out. Max wasn’t up there for 30 seconds before a loud cathump and scream. Super. I don’t know who screamed louder, Max or Daddy. It scared them both. Max wailed and grabbed his hip and all I could think of is, “Didn’t he just fall six feet?”
If you work with CPS, please do not call me. The boy cried for about a minute, and then asked if he could get back up on it. He ran back into his room. No limp. There’s now a ladder and a guard rail. So, we’re all jive with the state regulations. EIGHT HOURS and one more trip to orange store later, we have a bed. Ricardo even attached a race ramp for Max to race his cars under the loft. He loves it.
That night Max must have told Ricardo he loved him over and over again. I kept catching Ricardo admiring his carpentry skills. As he should. I’m so proud of the work he did as well as how gracious Max is about it.
Check out MacGyver’s handiwork:
I don’t mean to toot someone else’s horn, BUT: TOOT! TOOT! Pretty impressive, huh?
It was a day of hard physical labor, worth every bit of work for Max’s appreciation and sheer joy.
That’s how I roll.