At the very moment I sat down to write this blog, my kids started fighting over their keyboard. So we had our two millionth lesson about sharing. I am obviously doing something wrong here. The “experts” are always yapping about how effective it is for parents to model good behaviors for their children. So instead of sneakily retreating to my room, closing my door, hoarding the last of the Cheez-Its, and pretending to put away laundry, I am going to model the desired behavior and share. Not once, but twice.
The first thing I would like to share is a piece by Jerry Mahoney, who is the mastermind behind the blog Mommy Man: The Adventures of a Gay Superdad. All parents find themselves completely unprepared at one point or another when their children drop one of those atomic bomb questions that we haven’t yet thought about how to answer. Jerry, thankfully, is there to help a straight parent out if and when your child becomes curious about gay parents (which he or she will inevitably encounter in today’s society). His advice packs a punch of good old common sense, and helps parents use the right kind of language to encourage acceptance, tolerance, and a whole lot of “everyone is different and that’s okay.” Plus, he references Brainy Smurf, so you know it has to be good. Check out his post, “How To Talk to Your Children About Gay Parents, By a Gay Parent.” While you are there, stick around. He has a lot of other great stuff about just being a parent…gay or otherwise.
Now if I could just find a piece called, “How to Talk to Your Children About Not Picking Their Noses and Eating Their Boogers, By a Reformed Nose Picker Who Ate His Boogers.”
The second thing I want to share is this:
Okay, I just realized this was maybe not the best picture to have in the same post as one that talks about gay parents, but stay with me here. This is the Hutzler 571 Banana Slicer, available on Amazon. Yes, it is a completely ridiculous uni-tasker (as Alton Brown of Food Network would call it), and a bit funny simply by its mere existence. But a friend of mine posted the link to this on his Facebook page instructing everyone to read the reviews. So I did. Hi.Lar.I.Ous. My husband and I were actually in tears from laughing so hard, starting off with the review, “No More Winning for You, Mr. Banana!” This is literally the best thing that has ever been on Amazon. So do yourself a favor, and go read a few of the 3,101 reviews (yes, seriously) of a banana slicer. I dare you not to at least crack a smile.
This is a post I wrote about a year ago, but I felt the driving need to re-blog it today as I will be heading to Chuck E. Cheese’s with my children for our preschool’s fundraiser night. Please pray that tonight I don’t encounter another reason to ever write another post like this…
Chuck E. Cheese’s.
That is all you have to say to hear a collective, audible grunt from every parent within earshot. It may very well be the place “where a kid can be a kid,” but it is most certainly the place where a parent can get a preview of one of the circles of Hell. Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. But a place where your money gets you a mediocre pizza, a temporary tattoo and fun size Airhead candy for a mere 100 tickets, and a lingering sticky film over your entire body is not what I envision Heaven to be. Maybe Purgatory.
But I can deal with all of that. And I understand that in the eyes of my children, Chuck E. Cheese’s is the ultimate restaurant. After all, as a kid I felt the same way about its predecessor, Showbiz Pizza. So when faced with having to take my own kids to this pizza funland for a birthday party or fundraiser night (because those are pretty much the only circumstances under which we set foot in there), my audible grunt is not rooted in my disdain for the place. My distaste for Chuck E. Cheese’s comes from the mouse himself.
Yes, Chuck E. has scarred me for life. Let me take you back in time to the day it all happened…
The year was 1993. I was a sophomore in high school. For some reason completely incomprehensible to me now, but which clearly made sense to the idiot teenage brain, I went to Chuck E. Cheese’s with a few friends. Maybe we really wanted a neon pillow shaped liked an alien head and figured the best way to get one was to earn tickets playing Whack-A-Mole for an entire afternoon. Anyway, I remember it clearly. I was in the middle of one of my personal best rounds of skee ball when I felt a large, cartoonish presence next to me. There stood Chuck E., mimicking my skee ball maneuvers. Ha ha. Funny Chuck E. Now move along and go high-five some six-year-old. But he did not move on. He stood there for a little while, looking at me. I tried to ignore him and continued playing until he left. To my dismay, he did not stay away for long. He followed me, silently, creepily, from one game to the next. Don’t you have to go perform “Disco Chuck” or “Rockin’ Robin” with your band right about now? It was incredibly disturbing.
Finally, it must have been Chuck E.’s break time, because he scampered away behind a door, and I started breathing easy again. That is, until I turned around and found myself standing face to face with a Chuck E. Cheese employee – a human one this time. I thought maybe he was coming over to apologize for Chuck E.’s annoying behavior and to treat me to five free tokens for my inconvenience. I was mistaken. Here is how the conversation went down:
Employee: “Chuck E. wanted me to come out here and tell you that he thinks you’re cute.”
Me: <crickets chirping>
Employee: He’s a really nice guy. He wanted to know what you thought of his tail.
Me: <crickets chirping>
Employee: So when he comes back, you wanna hang out?
Me: I don’t date mice.
That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I WAS HIT ON BY CHUCK E. CHEESE. Of all the celebrities whose eye I could have caught, that was my one shining moment. Pathetic. Disgusting. And down right Creepy with a capital C.
“Is that your tail or are you just happy to see me?” photo from arcadeheroes.com
And THAT is why I hate Chuck E. Cheese’s. Since that very unfortunate day, I shudder a little whenever I hear Chuck E.’s nasaly voice on a commercial. When we are at the restaurant, I get weirded out and have the urge to hide whenever Chuck E. starts walking the floor. But I grin and bear it, all so my kids can have their fun.
And that is exactly what I did this past Thursday when Michael’s preschool had their fundraising night at Chuck E. Cheese’s. I bought my pizza and tokens like a dutiful mother. I helped Grace score extra points on the basketball game so she could earn more tickets toward junk I don’t want in my house. And I even alerted Michael when I saw Chuck E. sauntering among the customers (no doubt scanning the crowd for some unsuspecting female on whom he could work his “playa” moves). Michael loves Chuck E. Cheese, and when he saw the mouse, he ran up and gave him a hug. As I watched, a bit horrified, I had the thought, “Oh Michael. You have no idea. Chuck E. Cheese could have been your father.”
Then I threw up a little in my mouth.
(The Chuck E. Saga continued a few years later. For the next chapter, click here.)
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Late to the game as usual, I just heard about a blog contest for “Top 25 Funny Moms” on the Circle of Moms website and decided…what the heck? I believe I would fall in the category known as “Up and Coming Funny Moms.” There are only 14 more voting days, but if you have a few seconds and deem me as worthy, head on over HERE and vote for “Are You Finished Yet?” You can vote once a day. I would very kindly appreciate it! If not, no worries. I will never know.
I know I JUST made a new post yesterday, but I simply wanted to share a couple random things with you. Hopefully you are not already tired of me.
A classic quote from “Billy Madison”
#1 So I have been thinking about the political candidates today and what election day must be like for them. For me, the hubbub is over. I have cast my ballot; the rest is out of my hands. And to be very frank, watching the returns will likely be anti-climatic for me since I am mostly of the opinion that my life probably will not drastically change with the election of any candidate. But that’s just me.
What I am REALLY wondering is if any of the candidates are peeing in their pants yet? That’s what I said: peeing in their pants. Particularly Romney and Obama. And I don’t mean peeing in their pants because they are so excited…I mean peeing in their pants like, holy-crap-I-could-be-hours-away-from-becoming-the-next-president-what-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-into-maybe-I-will-dodge-a-bullet-and-lose. Seriously, though. I know how I felt when someone nominated me to be on the school board, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted the pressure of making decisions that would affect the entire educational system in which I entrust my children. So I can only imagine when someone says, “Hey, man. You should be the next president.” No thank you. That’s a little too much responsibility as far as I’m concerned.
#2 Speaking of peeing in my pants, I will most surely be doing that tomorrow as I will be appearing on LIVE television to support my very good friend Maggie Singleton as she promotes her new book “Milk Diaries.” A few of us who contributed stories to the book will be there along with Maggie to discuss how insanely amazing it is, as well as touch on hot topics in breastfeeding. So if you want to hear me talk about boobs, are in the St. Louis area, and are near a television at 10:00 a.m. on Wednesday, November 7th, you can watch me and Maggie on Great Day St. Louison KMOV Channel 4. The rest of you will have to wait to see me talk about boobs until I can post the link to the show afterwards.
I have decided it is time to diversify. Mix it up. Share the limelight. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the very first “Are You Finished Yet?’ Guest Blog Post, written by author Maggie Singleton. She is a very good friend of mine, so please don’t embarrass me. Mouths closed, “reading eyes” open, and give her your full attention.
Caring for Your Enginerd by Maggie Singleton
Kelly and I have been friends for nearly four years now. Sure, we have bonded through watching our mini-me firstborns move on from preschool to elementary school; and we have also bonded through slowly but surely finding our way as writers and bloggers; but there is something ever more central that bonds us like epoxy: our beloved enginerds.
“Enginerd” is a term Kelly coined a few years back to describe her husband—a combination of intelligent person possessing nerd-like qualities who can still uphold a relatively decent conversation. That pretty much describes my enginerd, too. I’m sure you know the type…the guys who can be found reading Popular Science or working a Rubik’s cube challenge for fun at any given moment. You see, it’s more than a career for the enginerd; it’s a mindset.
Now some of the traits I’m about to describe may sound general to half the population; but forgive me for not knowing the difference. My dad was an enginerd; his dad was an enginerd; most of Andy’s close friends are enginerds; heck, even some of my friends are married to enginerds or are enginerds themselves. I’m surrounded!
In case you find yourself in my shoes, I thought I would provide you with some tips on how to properly care for the enginerd in your life:
Enginerds do not like surprises. You know that surprise birthday party you would love for your husband to throw for you and thought you’d give him the “hint” by throwing one for him? You may want to rethink that. Enginerds like to know what’s going to happen, when it’s going to happen, where they should be, how they are going to get there, and who they should know when they arrive. Simply put: they like plans. So don’t mess with them. Care for your enginerd by providing as much information about an event as possible, and then hope to God nothing changes.
Enginerds cannot take a hint. An enginerd’s mind is capable of understanding the most complex of systems and could create a machine bigger than the room you’re sitting in; but if you want that cute necklace on page 24, you’re going to have to get out a pen and paper and write it down. Take good care of your enginerd by letting your needs be known. On paper. No guesswork = far less drama in the long run.
You may get more than you asked for from an enginerd. If you ask an enginerd what time it is, you may or may not get the answer you’re looking for. Instead of simply telling you the time, he very well could launch into a dissertation about how a watch works instead. Sometimes enginerds have difficulty finding the forest in the trees. Help redirect your enginerd with gentle yet firm statements like, “I said WHAT TIME IS IT?!?”
Enginerds are efficiency experts. Why spend ten minutes talking about something that could be settled in two? Case in point: our texts to each other. More often than not, my texts would go over the 160 character limit every time I sent a message under our old plan (thankfully for me, the new one doesn’t have a limit). His reply would usually be under five words. Simple, direct, and to the point. That’s my enginerd! Perhaps you can care for your enginerd by making all of your communication in Haiku.
Enginerds are “pretty good.” I have come to realize that “pretty good” is my enginerd’s highest form of adulation. If I just knocked his socks off with a new recipe, he’ll be sure to tell me it was “pretty good.” And that flirty dress he likes is “pretty nice” looking, too. If he were to go on and on about my cooking, it would expend far too much emotion and communication for his taste (and his logic might add that I would expect that same amount of praise the next time. Smart fella.) If he keeps his cool in every situation and only ups the ante with the occasional “that’s really good,” then it takes longer to reach his drama threshold. Care for your enginerd by keeping drama to a minimum.
Most.accurate.height.measurement.ever.
Enginerds accept no substitutes. Enginerds work ceaselessly to achieve (near) perfect designs. Be it a remodeling project, a great rib recipe, or a work assignment, they want it done right—every time. And once an acceptable state of precision has been met, they do not mess with it. Ever. (Well, unless they know exactly how and why a change is necessary and statistically how much better something will be as a result, of course.) An enginerd would argue that this same consistency and standardization *should* apply to the entire household. For example, you should not substitute Kahlua for vanilla in a batch of tried and true chocolate chip cookies because your enginerd will probably sniff out the imposter ingredient like a Bloodhound. In the future, if you are unable to make something according to “exact design specifications,” do your enginerd a loving favor and make brownies instead.
I do hope that this list of tips helps you deal with your enginerd. It certainly helps me appreciate mine more just writing about him (blog therapy?). I want to thank Kelly for this fun opportunity to share about something near and dear to both of our hearts. If you enjoyed this blog, you might also enjoy an article called “Caring for Your Introvert” by Jonathan Rauch from which this blog was inspired. If you have one of those on your hands, take a look!
Maggie Singleton is an author, blogger, editor, and an advocate for women married to enginerds. And she’s always good for picking up your kid from preschool when you find yourself in a pinch because you are of course stuck in the only checkout lane open at Walmart, manned by their most inefficient employee, but I’ll be damned if you’re going to abandon ship only to come back to that hell hole later with your kid in tow to purchase the same stuff that is sitting in your basket at this very moment.
At our house, we like to have music playing during dinner. Seeing as how we are not the kind of family who “dresses for dinner” (in fact, Michael is usually in some state of undress by dinnertime), we don’t listen to anything refined like Beethoven. One is more likely apt to hear Dave Matthews Band, O.A.R., the bluesy incarnation of John Mayer, maybe Foo Fighters every now and again; and if I’m lucky, my husband will throw me a bone and play one of The Monkees albums. But only if I’m lucky.
Last night the ipod landed on my Debbie Gibson playlist. (Laugh at my musical preferences if you will, but don’t pretend you didn’t just let out a barely audible “awww yeeaahh” and mindlessly sing, “Shake your love. I just can’t shake your love.”) Grace was particularly happy about this dinner music, having discovered quite the adoration for her mom’s favorite old tunes…which makes me particularly happy that she is jammin’ to Gibson and her squeaky clean pop instead of to some maturing Disney starlet who feels some pressing need to prove she is growing up by also proving she is a hoochi mama sexually empowered.
So there we were, chewing on our pork tenderloin to the bubble gum beats. A little “Only in My Dreams.” Spicing things up with “Red Hot.” Then Debbie slowed things down with “Lost in Your Eyes.” My husband felt the need to add his own commentary that “mommy likes to sing this song to me.” (Which is not true…because singing that song to him would kind of be like cheating. I used to sing that song to my poster of Micky Dolenz in my room. It’s “our song.” Mine and poster Micky Dolenz’s.) So when I failed to flex my not-so-golden pipes in response, Kurt protested, “Aren’t you going to sing to me?”
“You want me to paint a smiley face on my knee, too?” I asked.
He stared at me with a blank expression. Preteen Kurt obviously did NOT have the Out of the Blue cassette tape in his boombox rotation, otherwise he would have understood my clearly witty reference. So I explained what Miss Gibson was wearing on that album cover, ingrained in my memory as being the height of fashion: the ripped, tight-rolled jeans exposing her happy knee, the white Keds, the giant earrings, the striped shirt…
At that very moment, I glanced down at myself and realized I was wearing this:
And of course, that meant that THIS had to be done:
It took me twenty-five years to finally be as cool as Debbie Gibson was in 1987. I think a little Electric Youth perfume would really be the piece de resistance to complete the outfit.
Now let’s get back to the dance party with a little more “Shake Your Love”…while I go tease my bangs.
As I pushed my wobbling cart through the sliding doors of Walmart yesterday, the heavens opened and a phosphorescent glow pulsated from the display that stood to greet me…
YES!!!! The caramel apples have arrived! “Happy Apples” indeed! As you can see, I was very quick to snap up a package and place them directly in the front seat of my basket, a place reserved only for the most precious items: your baby, your purse, and your Happy Apples.
I love caramel apples. I crave the combination of sweet, salty, and tart, and how the juicy crispness of the apple mixes in my mouth with the smooth, sticky caramel and tiny crunch of the peanuts. From the moment they populate the seasonal display at the grocery store to the depressing day they disappear from the produce section, I will add a package of Happy Apples to my cart almost every week. And I ALWAYS buy the four pack, never the singles…usually with the intention that I will share them with the kids. But usually I end up hiding them in the back of the refrigerator and hoarding them all for myself. At the very least, I snag two of the four: one for Grace, one for Michael, two for Mommy. None for Daddy. He knows better than to get between this woman and her Happy Apples.
But even more than eating them, I love caramel apples because of what their arrival signals: the best part of the year. It whispers to me that autumn is on the heels of summer, meaning jeans and sweaters, all things pumpkin, and a lot more evenings of eating dinner on the deck enjoying beautiful weather. And Halloween. I am addicted to Halloween. Let us also not forget that the advent of caramel apples also means the advent of school. Ah, school. Otherwise known as a stay-at-home mom’s vacation.
Don’t get me wrong; I really do love having my kids home for the summer. And we had a good one this year full of relatively outburst-free outings, a lot of pool visits, and “hey let’s go do this today,” just because we could. Sending Grace and Michael back to school is always tinged with some sadness for me because, more than any other time, it hits me square in the face how quickly my kids are growing. How all my attempts to hold onto their childhoods are in vain, and soon they will be packing up their cars to move to their own apartments instead of packing up their backpacks to head off to just another day of school.
So yesterday was the perfect day for the Happy Apples to arrive, because yesterday was Michael’s first day of school. Grace started last week, and yesterday marked the day where I dropped off both kids and then had the nagging feeling that I was forgetting something. And this could very well be Michael’s last year of preschool (provided we don’t hold him back due to his late birthday), so yesterday also quite possibly marked the beginning of the end of an era in my parenting life. Whoa. I just got a little lump in my throat even typing that. But there the Happy Apples were…to make it all better…
…and to remind me that now that school is back in session, I have an ample amount of kid-free time to devour the entire four-pack without them even knowing.
We have some good neighbors, and we have some bad neighbors. Unfortunately, we said goodbye to some of our good neighbors yesterday as they headed out to make a new home in the Pittsburg area. My kids just lost two playmates, and Kurt and I just lost another couple who we enjoyed, trusted, and could borrow stuff from.
Their house is still on the market (and is quite lovely), so I figured this is my chance to advertise for some new neighbors we would approve of. The last family to move onto our street has been a bit of a disappointment, so we would like to avoid a repeat of that situation. Here are my requirements:
1. Friendly, but not overly friendly. I don’t need to know all your business, and you don’t need to know all of mine. But if we’re both outside, I’d like to have some good casual conversation.
2. Children around my kids’ ages would be a bonus (not a requirement), but only if they aren’t rude and won’t teach my kids any more bad behaviors than they already have. Oh, and only if they come and ask to play at NORMAL playing times, like NOT at dinner time, at the very moment I just got my kids to start cleaning their rooms, or at eight o’clock at night…because we already have neighborhood kids who come at those times. If the children aren’t around my kids’ ages, we would also appreciate a trustworthy, responsible teen who would rather babysit on weekends than get drunk at parties.
3. You must cut your grass and make sure trash ends up in your trash cans, not scattered around your yard. It would also be helpful if you knew the difference between a weed that you should pull and a nice plant that you should let grow so that you don’t let your weeds flourish and all your plants wither to nothing.
4. When it snows, shovel your driveway so that your car doesn’t get stuck trying to back out, and your spinning wheels don’t result in a huge cavernous rut in the grass that is shortly accompanied by tire tracks when you finally decide it’s just easier to drive through the front lawn rather than pull out a shovel and remove some snow.
5. Buy girl scout cookies from my daughter. Our neighbors who just moved were always one of her top customers, so start saving up. She’ll be knocking on your door come February.
6. Always have vegetable oil, milk, and eggs on hand. Because I can sometimes be impulsive in my baking and will often start a recipe before checking to see if I have everything I need. And it’s kind of a pain to run up to the store when I know I can likely find what I need right across the street.
7. Know when “quiet times” are. For example, we would be very happy if you did not pull into your driveway with your music blasting or set off fireworks at two o’clock in the morning, have what can only be described as “car door-slamming parties” in the middle of the night, or decide to finally cut your grass at six o’clock on a Sunday morning.
I think that probably about covers it, and I don’t think any of those are too much to ask. So spread the word (and the requirements, please). I promise we will be very good neighbors in return: we are always happy to lend neighborly help, we organize the block party so you don’t have to, we have been known to invite people over for dinner if we’ve made way too much chili, we won’t let our kids trample your grass or our dog poop in your yard, and if you make the cut you’ll get some pretty delicious and “creatively” decorated cookies at Christmas time.
But I swear, if you don’t keep your grass cut, I WILL complain about you in a blog post.
Between the “Are You Finished Yet?” Facebook page, Twitter account, and email and WordPress subscriptions, I am now potentially reaching at least 100 people every time I post something. Continue reading “What I Have to Tell 100 People…”→
We have had our new dishwasher for exactly one week. My 20-year-old self would find me incredibly lame because, well, it has probably been the highlight of the last seven days…even taking into account the facts that I had a frosty from Wendy’s on Monday AND I allowed myself to buy the double-stuffed Oreos instead of the reduced-fat ones at the grocery store on Thursday. I know. Just add this to the list of things I never said when I was twenty-four.
After telling Michael almost every day to NOT stand on the dishwasher door, we let him jump on the old one all he wanted while we waited for the new one to be delivered.
So yeah, this new dishwasher is pretty rad, mostly because I don’t have to pre-rinse the dishes before I put them in. That’s right. No cleaning my dishes by hand in order to have them cleaned by a machine. I have to say I was a little skeptical when my brother-in-law Ryan told us that is what we could expect when we asked him his opinion on which dishwasher we should buy. Ryan is a contractor, and an incredibly talented one, so we trust his judgement. You can check out his work at McCarthy Design + Build (…and then go ahead and give him some business. My two nieces could probably make a living off of being so darn cute, but we would all prefer they go to college). But I still thought that surely a dishwasher couldn’t be THAT good. But it is. It even got off dried-on smoothie, which was my old dishwasher’s mortal enemy.
So out of gratitude for this simple pleasure in life, I give you “Ode To My New Dishwasher:”
I thought no pre-rinsing was only true in fairy tales Meant for rich people, but not for me Detergent spots were out to get me (duh-doo-doo-doo-doo) Baked-on food too (duh-doo-doo-doo-doo) Rewashing forks haunted all my dreams
Then I got my Bosch Now I’m a believer Not a speck Of peanut butter on my knives My dishes are clean (ooooooooo ahhhhhhh) I’m a believer, I couldn’t clean it better with my hands
But for the record, I still hate doing dishes. I’ll write a novella about the dishwasher that can remedy that.
Are You Finished Yet? 