LOST in Suburban Bliss

Dirty Little Secret

I have a dirty little secret. 

It's sort of embarrassing. 

It has to do with me, the bathroom, and a little toy. 

I know I shouldn't be in there with my toy. 

Yet I can't make myself stop. 

It just makes me feel so good. 

But this dirty bathroom secret is weighing on my shoulders and I must confess...

sometimes, when the kids are yelling-fighting-arguing-screaming-makingweirdnoises, 

and the dog is standing by the window howling at a chipmunk, 

and the phone is ringing, 

and the dryer is buzzing, 

and the dinner is burning, 

and someone is crying, 

it is then that I head off to the bathroom.

I close the door, muffling out the sounds of my life. 

I position myself on the edge of the bathtub and it is then that I indulge in a quick 

.

tap on the app.

.

O, iPhone! 

Joy of my life, lifter of my spirits, brightener of my day, how I love thee!

.

It doesn't take long. Just a quick...

.

tap on the Facebook app and my loneliness has dissipated, 

tap on the Google Reader app and my frustration melts away with other bloggers just as crazy as me,

tap on the Twitter app and my tension is eased with a simple 140-character complaint,

tap on my blog app and I am reassured that someone loves me, 

tap on the email app and gorge on the day's gossip,

tap on the People app and giggle under the covers at Jon and Kate plus their dumb fate, 

tap on the Huffington Post app to be seduced by the oh-so-important daily "news."

And if I have time, 

a quick tap on the Stone Loops app to dull my senses to the crises that school-age children present on a daily basis.

.

Yes, this is my dirty little secret. I love a good tap on the app. Nothing refreshes me more. When I'm finished, I straighten my hair, adjust my shirt, and head out of the bathroom fully prepared to tell everyone to knock it off already, while inside my head I am just waiting for the next moment when I can sneak away to 

.

tap that app again. 

Being A Mom IS My Costume

Though we are already seven days in, I am having a hard time adjusting to the fact that we are actually in the month of October. My girls, on the other hand, are READY. 

Ready for Halloween, that is. 

Costume conversation is always very spirited in our house. Spirited to the point that it sort of drives me crazy. In the years past, the girls would waver back and forth on their costume decisions, one day wanting to be a fairy; the next, a cat; the next, a ballerina. One year Poonch decided to be Hello Kitty as early as September. Excited that she had made up her mind so painlessly, I raced to Target to buy her the costume she had seen in the Sunday paper flier, purchased it, and skipped home giddy, unbelieving that her costume was taken care of so easily. My good mood was dashed as she proclaimed it was "way too itchy" and anyhow, she "wanted to be a princess instead." I made my way to the Customer Service department to return the itchy Hello Kitty costume, only to be berated by the sales lady who told me I shouldn't let my kids change their mind about a Halloween costume. 

I'm pretty sure the sales lady went as a witch that year. 

Anyhow, this year things are much different. The girls haven't so much as discussed what they want to be as declared it. Chuckles, oh my sweet, smart, recycling Chuckles, has decided to wear her flower girl dress and go as a princess. YAY for mommy! 

One costume down. 

When Poonch had the non-flu last spring, she became entranced by Harry Potter, having enough energy to both read the first book and watch two movies, all in that convalescent week. Thus, she had no problem deciding to go as Hermione this Halloween. Black robe and purple and yellow striped scarf? 

Second costume down. 

This afternoon we were at the party store and with the girls' costumes completed, they have taken my supposed costume woes under their wing (for some reason it hasn't occurred to them that they have never seen me dress up in a Halloween costume). They scoured the costumes until they found this one and declared it perfect:

Yeah, I know. 

Even worse than the actual outfit? The official title of the costume:

SPONGE BABE. 

Third costume? Not down. Not down with that at all. 

Songs You Shouldn't Teach Your Kids

Despite Poonch's rocky start to camp, she managed to survive. That's the good news. The bad news is that not only am I LOST in Suburban Bliss, but I now am stuck here with the dreaded camp songs.

double double this this, double double that that

I have no idea what that means, but as Poonch sings it, she adds a weird hand gesture to it as well.

penguins attention! penguins begin! right wing, left wing!

This, too, comes with an awkward dance. 

She has been walking around all day singing these songs, sometimes loud, sometimes under her breath, either way driving the rest of us batty. I think even the Hound has had enough. As she passed me in the foyer singing double double this this under her breath after dinner last night, I broke out with... 

firecracker, firecracker, boom, boom, boom!

firecracker, firecracker, boom, boom, boom!

boys got the muscle, teachers got the brains, girls got the sexy legs and 

we won the game! woo!

OMG, what the f*ck was that? Where did it come from? What did I just sing to my daughters? This heinous tune just came out of my mouth, unchecked, a sing-song sexist chant that I used to sing all the time when I was in 1st and 2nd grade. Worse yet, I'm pretty sure my mother taught it to me. 

As I finished the song with an awkward leg kick that I was going to call a herkie but just couldn't due to its overall un-herkiness, Hubs stared at me. I stood there, catching my breath. It was quiet for a minute, until the girls started laughing. I don't even think they caught on to the horrible stereotypes the song invoked, thanks to my clumsy jump. They weren't laughing at the song, they were laughing at me.

boys got the muscle??

girls got the sexy legs???

I will never sing that song to them again, I declared, mortified. 

Good, said Hubs. 

penguins attention! penguins begin...

Unmentionables

The girls and I went to the movies the other day, an activity that we all love. The girls love it for whatever silly movie that is playing and the Chewy SweetTarts they talk me into, and I love it for 2 hours of no talking/whining. It's a win-win. 

Anyhow, we had just settled in (meaning, got that little booster seat for Chuckles, opened the water bottles, ripped open the SweetTarts without spilling them, took off sweatshirts, fixed the booster seat again, checked the napkin stash, asked for the 3rd time if anyone had to go potty) when the previews started. This preview happened to be for that new Disney movie G-Force starring guinea pigs (because movies about chipmunks just aren't enough). As the highlights were flashing across the screen, one of the guinea pigs yelled out something about tightie-whities. Chuckles started laughing hysterically. 

Chucks, what's so funny? I asked. 

He said tightie-whities!

Now, there are no boys in our house besides Hubs, and I cannot tell you what kind of underwear he wears, because sometimes during a lull at work he reads my blog and he would kill me if I discussed his unmentionables, but I am pretty sure Chuckles has never seen tightie-whities, or if she has, shouldn't know the urban vernacular for them. (Mark that down for the longest blog sentence you will read today.)

Um, do you know what tightie-whities are, Chuckles?

Yeah, Mom. It's a DIAPER!!!!!

At this she started chuckling again. Hard. Loud. 

She's right. Because when you think about it, tightie-whities DO look like a diaper. A big, glorified diaper. 

This. Is. The. Year.

It's here. Finally. Summer is my favorite season. Well, I love fall and of course there's always the holiday season, but summer is just, well...fun. Summer to me means 

flip flops and the smell of suntan lotion and popsicles

beach towels and swimsuits and bags stuffed with pool toys

sleeping in and sunshine and summer thunderstorms

boat rides and Summer Shandy and my summer iTunes playlist

fireworks and sparklers and bonfires

and long days of just vegging. 

A long, long time ago, I figured being a SAHM in the summer would be the easiest job in the world. Wrong. Have you ever taken two children to a public pool? Two children who look just like every other child with wet hair and brightly colored suits? Two children who assume they are better swimmers than they really are? Two children who think it is super-duper funny to hide from mom? Two children who are so fair that they burn in 10 minutes but hate having sunscreen applied to them? Two children who need a snack for every 10 minutes of swimming? Two children who wait until the.very.last.minute. to use the bathroom and have to "do the dance" while you struggle to get their swimsuit down as sweat drips from your forehead? 

Not so easy. 

Which is why this is the year I have been waiting for. 

This is the year when both girls can swim on their own. 

This is the year when both girls can use the bathroom on their own. 

This is the year when both girls would rather play with someone else in the water than me (for the most part). 

This is the year when they can go to the sand area during adult swim and won't bother me too much about snacks. 

This. Is. The. Year. 

On our first pool outing last week, I brought my new Food mag and a giant, juicy book that I was dying to crack open. For 8 LONG years I enviously stared at the moms with mags while I stood in the 3 foot deep water, being splashed by toddlers. Ah, poolside readers. I was so jealous. But today that would be me. 

This. Is. The. Year. 

The girls ran to the water and jumped in, splashing and laughing. I sat down, arranged my things and cracked open my book, sighing deeply. I ran my hands over the pages. I felt giddy. This was too good to be true. 

I read one paragraph, one stinking paragraph before a mom I know from Poonch's school saw me and came over to "chit chat." Then another one came. And another. Like ants, marching one by one. Chit-chatting ants. 

This. Won't. Be. The. Year. I. Thought. It. Was. Going. To. Be. 

I reluctantly put down my book and threw on my smile. 

As A Matter of Fact, I Do Have a Question Quota

You know your annoyance factor has finally spiked through the roof when the answer to this question (which is delivered by the cutest stinkin' 5-year-old)...

Mom, do I ask a lot of questions? 

is a resounding... 

YES. Yes, you do. 

You know it is finally time to open that bottle of wine when that last question, despite your awful, mean mommy answer, is followed up with this...

Hhhmmm. Soooo (twirling her hair, eyes to the sky), why do you think I ask so many questions???

(Insert sound of popping cork here.)

Running Down a Dream

The other day we were driving down the road, the same road we drive down pretty much every day. This day, however, the girls let out a huge WHOOP and started screaming and laughing. 

Turning to see what the commotion was all about, I knew immediately why they were so excited. We had just passed our community pool, and it seems that the umbrellas were up. And the lounge chairs were out. And there was actual water in the pool. Even the sprinklers were running. 

What? Already?? I checked the temperature on my dash...it was a whopping 58 degrees. So not ready for the pool. 

I glanced down at my 

halloweencandythanksgivinggravychristmascookieseasterchocolate belly. 

Shit. 

I have a week until...swimsuit season. 

Unable to get those umbrellas out of my mind, the next morning I leashed up the Hound and went for a run. Not my usual walk, but a run. It's crunch time after all. 

As I was running, I glimpsed a mom of one of Poonch's classmates, a woman I actually consider a friend, across the intersection. I saw her stumble a little, but thought nothing of it. She waited for me and as I approached her, she said

I totally just fell into that hole when I saw you running. 

I began to laugh and then...

Wait. 

WHAT???

She fell into a hole when she saw me running? 

As in, she was so excited to see me? 

Or as in, she couldn't believe I was running? 

Which was it? 

As the conversation continued, I started to get the feeling that she meant the latter. 

That's. Just. Great. 

I mean, sure it's not like I run every day, but come on. 

We ended our conversation and then I turned and resumed running, this time much faster than before. 

I can't wait to see her at the pool next week. After all, she was walking. 

Don't My Girls Just Wanna Have Fuh-un?

Music. It is the universal language. Or is that love? Regardless, music rocks. It marks occasions, it lifts the spirit, it heals, and it ties people together. 

I love music, all types (except for maybe metal and hard core rap, so I guess I use the term "all types" loosely). When the girls were born, we continued to play regular music. I once tried to play one of those kiddie CDs in the car, but that lasted about 10 minutes. I couldn't take it. 

So I switched back to my favorite station and kept it there over the years. And the girls loved it, mostly because they didn't know any better. When they went to preschool, they were the ones who didn't really know their nursery rhymes. My bad. But they did know how to sing Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire. As a matter of fact, when Chuckles was 4 months old, Poonch would sing that chorus, and Chuckles would laugh and laugh. They still learned how to rhyme, they just didn't sing about clocks and a mouse and a spider and a lamb... 

I fell into a burning ring of FIIIRRRREEE, 

down, down, down, the flames went HIGHER. 

OK, so it's not really a true rhyme. But if you say it like Johnny sings it, it rhymes. 

Sadly, as both girls have gotten older and have memorized words to pretty much every song I listen to, I've realized that perhaps some of these lyrics are meant for older ears. 

Katy Perry singing about kissing a girl and liking it...well, I think my girls are starting to catch on that Katy is not talking about giving her mom a kiss. 

Having a 5-year-old ask you what a Womanizer is can be alarming. 

"Na na na na na, I wanna start a fight." Although catchy and fun, not a good thing to be singing in preschool. 

Devastated, I knew I had to be the responsible adult and find music that they could memorize and sing in school without me getting called about the lyrics they were belting out. Being ever so helpful, Hubs made a G-rated mix for the girls. He included such "acts" as the Jonas Brothers, the Cheetah Girls, and Miley Cyrus. G-rated in that it is Generous to actually refer to them as musically inclined. 

Dear loyal readers, I must admit, I have found myself singing along to a few of Miley's songs. (Shoot me now.) One song came on that sounded vaguely familiar. Where do I know this tune, I wondered? OMG, it Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Sadly, Miley butchered that 80s classic so bad that I barely recognized it at first. Ironically, this is one of the girls' favorite songs on the CD. 

Excited, I told them how this song is not new, but is actually old, and was a hit when I was a kid. I grabbed my iPod and found Cyndi Lauper and hit play. I sang and danced along, happily recalling Captain Lou Albano as her dad in the MTV video. (Remember when MTV played videos?) 

The song finished, and as I brought my voice back down to a human register, I opened my eyes. 

They stood there, silent. 

They hated it. 

Music tying generations together? Not so much. 

The only thing this music was doing was making me feel very old. I recalled countless songs that I loved as a kid, only to be disgusted when my dad would tell me that it was a remake. He would play the original for me and I usually 

hated it. 

((gasp)) 

I am so old. Worse, I have become...

a PARENT.

When the hell did that happen?

  

A Man, A Woman, and a Basement Renovation

When a man loves a woman, he shows it by finishing her basement. 

The woman is happy her man is finally finishing what they fondly refer to as "the dump." 

The man starts planning. 

The woman, being of simple basement mind, sees shelf upon shelf of storage, closet after closet full of accessible holiday decorations. Maybe even color-coordinated.

The man would like to go down to the basement and not even worry about the fact that there are Christmas decorations down there. 

The woman envisions a warm, cozy, family den. 

The man dreams of a proud, hand-made bar that will boldly call to his manly friends within a 20-mile radius.

The woman warmly envisions a cozy area for those idyllic childhood sleepovers. 

The man has already ordered a projection TV with a 120-inch screen. 

The woman, after making the man prove he actually had 120 inches, concedes to the screen, hoping that sleeping bags could be spread out in front of it. 

The man envisions stadium seating taking over the sleeping bags, and informs the woman that this is not a family room, but a media room. The family room, he reminds her, is upstairs. 

The woman, in turn, envisions the other side of the basement as a family game center. 

The man envisions the other side of the basement as the poker area and calmly points out that the children have learned how to play Texas Hold 'Em. A-hem. 

The woman rethinks the game table to become a craft table. Perhaps a Brownie troop meeting center.

The man delivers an definitive no. (Nodding, the woman agrees.)

The woman envisions carpet. 

The man envisions Pergo (of which he has obtained a sample left in water overnight to see how it would handle flooding conditions).

The woman, recalling her sump-pump breakdown paranoia, concedes to no carpet, and instead requests a voluminous closet at the bottom of the stairs with double oversized doors. 

The man balks. 

The woman begins to lovingly refer to closet as "the pantry."

The man balks again. 

The woman knowingly glances at the bar. 

The man builds the pantry. 

The woman smiles. 

The man is happy. 

And the woman knows it. 

After all, the only thing she really wanted was a closet, but instead she got a pantry. 

Life is good. 

Friday Foto

My mom is going to kill me for this. But perhaps it will soften the blow when I tell her that her Mother's Day cards are going to be late. Again. ((sheepish grin))

Sorry, Mom. You know we've been sort of housebound this week. 

Happy Mother's Day to the best mom and grandma!

And Happy Mother's Day to all of the rest of the moms out there. 

Happy Friday. 

Get That Cereal Off Of My Calendar

I am sort of anal retentive. Perhaps slightly obsessive compulsive. When it comes to my calendar, that is. Our family is pretty busy, with the girls doing their things, Hubs traveling, and on and on. Things started getting out of control and since I am a control freak as well (I have issues), I took matters into my own hands. Solution: I hung up a dry erase calendar in our kitchen. Little did I know that this calendar would become part of our family. It is our hub. The girls read it, Hubs reads it, guests read it. People comment on certain events, ask how others went. Of course I read it, but since I have loaded all of these events into my computer weeks before they actually occur, I usually have everything memorized once I fill out the public calendar. (Someone once asked me what I would do all info was "accidentally" erased in one large swipe.  Thus, the computer. Back-up, baby.) 

There is only one caveat. Anyone can read the calendar, but no one is allowed to write on it except for me. Very few things in this house are just mine. This calendar is mine. Everyone knows it. And makes fun of me for it. I don't care. 

Another thing I obsess about is sugary cereal, much to the rest of the family's chagrin. (I swear, this topic change will make sense in a minute.) My girls are sugar hounds. They have a sweet tooth that rivals no other. (I mean, I have no idea where they got that, she says, as she brushes chocolate chip cookie crumbs from the keyboard.) I have discovered that all cereals have sugar, including the "healthy" ones. I do not ban sugar by any means. (As she licks the chocolate from her finger.) But surely we can cut down on the daily morning sugar consumption, right? Thus, the cereals I choose are not what the girls (or Hubs) would necessarily choose. Unfortunately for them, I do all the shopping. 

That is, until their aunt AND their grandma both gave the girls boxes of their favorite cereal as an extra Easter gift. Sigh. OK, I know they will continue to live if they have a bowl every now and then, so we said thank you and I told the girls they could eat it on the weekends. 

Now, everybody knows that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Looks like my sweet tooth and OCD genes have definitely been passed on, as I came down one day to the following:

I can't believe that kid touched my calendar. She must have been on a sugar high to even contemplate it. Where is that eraser? 

Friday Foto

Here's Poonch comparing her foot to that of a dinosaur during our trip to the Field Museum in Chicago last week. I think she decided that it was a good thing they have gone extinct. 

While I was impressed with the footprint, mostly I was thinking that I would kill to be able to wear that cute legging and boot combo without looking like a complete dork.

Happy Friday. 

What's Wrong With Me?

Things I could have done while Hubby is out of town and my MIL has the girls overnight (our version of a Spring Break trip):

catch up on my blog reading

write uninterrupted for hours on end

read my book club selection, of which I am the only one who hasn't finished

go for a run

take the Hound for a walk (today was his birthday after all)

go shopping for spring clothes for the girls

go shopping for ME

hang out at the bookstore in the sections I enjoy, not going near the kids' section

take my laptop to Starbucks

get a pedicure

go to a chick flick with no one to steal my popcorn, especially the good pieces on top completely soaked in butter

watch Real Housewives episodes with no one to make fun of me

twitter

work in the yard (which I enjoy until it actually becomes work)

buy some new cute flip flops (because surely summer is coming)

pick my nose

stare out the window.

Instead, I chose to spend this precious, precious time by 

painting the girls' bathroom. 

And then I blogged about it. 

Who thinks I need a rum drink with a cute little umbrella in it? 

Spring Break sucks. 

Mathematic Equation of My Day

9 Brownie Girls + 1 Extra Preschooler + 2 Kindergarten Boys + 1 Barking Dog + 1 Meowing Cat x My House For an Hour and a Half = 

1 Bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon

'Nuff said. 

What a Mingent Day

Announcement!

There is someone else who is lucky enough to be Lost in Suburban Bliss with the rest of us. I would like to introduce our new adopted word (drumroll please)...

 Mingent: (adj) discharging urine. 

Whether or not I am correct, I liken mingent to "pissy." My mom never liked the word pissy or pissed or piss for that matter. But sometimes one just needs to use it. Like when one just has had

a really pissy day. 

I can't really use the word pissy around the girls, but I sure can use mingent. 

I've had a really mingent day. 

Try it, you'll like it. 

And if you would like to adopt a cool word like mingent, go over to Save The Words and adopt a word of your own. 

And when you are done with that (it might take a while since there are so many neat words to pick from), check out Mom-I-Am and inktopia for a fun ride on their starrified blogs. They are the ones who pointed me to my new addition.

Here's hoping your day is NOT mingent. 

Just Chillin'

Chuckles is a bona fide couch potato. 

She really is. 

Before you judge me on how I let my kids spend their time, first know this...

Chuckles loves to run and play outside, has lots of friends, goes to school, and is obsessed with her tumbling class. She will show you the medal she won for soccer within 5 minutes of meeting you, is practicing for her 2nd annual dance recital, loves to swim and would be in a pool every day if she could, and yet after all that, is begging me to sign her up for basketball, without agreeing to give up any of the aforementioned activities. She loves to visit the library and read books, draw, color, practice her letters, do any craft you throw at her, paint, and cut out any shape, especially hearts. She'll set the table without complaining and loves to do the dishes. And she does them with a smile. It's hard to believe she's only four.

But damn does that girl love to cuddle on the couch (or the floor) with a blankie and her dolls and watch movies over and over. (She has begged me to order her a Snuggie. So far I have refused, although her birthday is coming up and it ranks top on her list. She insists that her arms are cold with just regular blankets.) 

She once told me that TV is the greatest invention EVER, Mom. 

This week she has been hit with that nasty stomach bug that has been going around, and although she is, for the most part, recovered, she is milking this thing for all it's worth. She has been on the couch for 4 days straight, and she is so obviously happy about it. She switches from episodes of Spongebob to Word Girl to Wonder Pets to her favorite playlist of movies. She's just like me her father. 

I would start to worry, except that she is hands down THE most stable, happy, social, witty, kind, patient, polite, funny, well-adjusted person in our family. So I'm not going to mess with something that's not broken. It's the other ones I worry about, myself included.  

She can veg out all she wants. 

(I'm so jealous.)

 

Friend Me

I was in hiding for so long. For months I remained cloaked under wireless connections. Until last week. My anonymity is ruined. 

On Facebook, that is. 

Yes, I am on Facebook, but I didn't just jump on the bandwagon. I had good reason to join. I am attempting to write a YA novel so I figured that I had better see what this social networking is all about. A couple of years ago I took an online writing course. I submitted a few chapters and one of the criticisms made was that teens don't communicate via email anymore, like I had my characters doing. The instructor suggested texting, IMing, MySpace, and Facebook. Oh. Oops. The instructor could instantly tell my age and let me tell you, I was embarrassed. How could I have made such an obvious mistake?

Thus, I joined Facebook. I admit, I was nervous. Who would befriend me? Who would I befriend? How do you find friends? What if I had NO friends? It was like high school all over again. But then again, wasn't that the point? 

The going was slow at first. It took me some time to figure out how all those applications worked. Not that I really needed them, because there are only so many Little Green Patch requests that the whopping three friends I had could send. 

However, little by little I familiarized myself with it. Soon I found myself checking it first thing in the morning. I became...addicted. But that was OK, because I was putting myself into the daily life of a teen. Sort of. 

My friend list grew. At first I was the oldest amongst my gang. But then more and more of my high school and college friends joined. I started chatting with friends whom I hadn't seen in years. I knew that my college roomie's kid was sick and that my other roomie was going on vacation in a few days. I can tell you who has gone to Disney. I know who just had a baby and who has kids going into middle school already. I know a lot. And they know a lot about me. But that is OK, because they knew me back in the day. They knew me when I had more of a...well, social life. They knew me before I was a mom. 

So I didn't feel bad when the flair on my profile would say things like 

Kids should come with complimentary shots of tequila. 

or

Who are these kids and why are they calling me mom?

or

Member of the Mean Mommy Club. 

Funny stuff that always made me chuckle. I loved posting it. I thought I was so clever. And cool. Because teens post cool stuff like that, right? 

But then they found me. My neighbors. People who never knew me before I was a mommy. Even worse? Some of the mothers of the Brownie troop that I co-lead found me. Oh no. How could I keep my tequila flair up and expect these ladies to trust me with their most treasured possessions, their children? How would I be able to get them to sign a field trip permission slip knowing I am a member of the MMC?

Sadly, I switched out my flair. If any neighbor or Brownie troop mom should click on my profile, they will be able to read my new flair...

Remember, as far as anyone knows, we are a nice, normal family. 

I just hope they don't find me on Twitter...

 

Friday Foto

One good thing about February...Spring Training. For baseball fans like me, it is encouraging to know that in a warmer part of the country the sounds of summer are gearing up, regardless of the weather here. A couple years ago I was able to go to Opening Day at Jacobs Field (as it was called then) in Cleveland, which is where I grew up. Here is what April baseball in Cleveland looks like: 

 

Nope, that is not confetti on the peanuts. More like take me out to the snowgame. Now you know why I moved to balmy Chicago. The game was called in the fifth due to blizzard conditions. There was only one thing for a baseball fan to do...head to the bar. It was the best baseball game I've ever been to. 

Happy Friday. 

Not This Show Business

So, as I might have complained about mentioned earlier, Hubby has been out of town a lot lately. Although I miss him dearly when he is gone, I do love having sole control of the remote once the girls go to bed. However, while watching TV this week, a thought crossed my mind regarding reality TV shows and my daughters. Because old age is already affecting my mind, I am going to compose a letter to my girls now before I forget my thoughts in hopes that they will read it in the future:

Dear Poonch and Chuckles, 

I love you dearly. I will fully support you in whatever dreams you may have. However, I will knock you upside your head if in 10 or so years from now I am flipping through the channels and see you on any of the following shows:

The Bachelor

Girls, this show is an absolute train wreck. It's one of those god-awful things that I people just can't turn away from, all the while knowing no good will come of this chauvinistic debacle. Even if that silly boy with the big pectorals picks you, he won't marry you, which, trust me, is a good thing. Meet your hubby the old-fashioned way...go to a bar and pick him up. That's how Daddy and I met and look how happy we are. 

The Bachelorette

Same idea as the above. No matter which boy you "pick" to propose to you, he won't marry you, either. If you ever become desperate enough to go on this show, just call me and I will pick out 25 nice boys for you to choose a soul mate from. Trust me, I will find a closer match than Chris Harrison ever would. Plus, it would be very hard for Daddy to watch you get into a hot tub with 25 different boys. 

American Idol

I know, I know, Mommy loves this show. I admit it. OK, if you sign up for this show, I will let it slide. Unless of course, you are one of those ridiculously awful singers that the producers put on just for TV ratings. If, however, you make it past the catty Hollywood week, you can be assured that I will be in the front row to drool at that fine specimen of a Brit named Simon cheer you on with all my might to the final two. I won't even embarrass you by saying something silly like Gosh, Ryan, I think it was all those years of singing Mamma Mia together that brought her here...

Dancing With the Stars

I have seen you guys dance, and I think we are safe with this one. But alas, you are young, and who knows what talent may still lay hidden underneath your adorable, kissable baby fat. However, this show is dangerous! People have been known to pass out, break or sprain ankles, and even be made fun of (see the Jerry Springer episodes). The worst, though, is that even if you survive those grueling training sessions and repeated spray tan appointments, the only thing you win is that god-awful trophy. I could not imagine having to stick that thing next to Daddy's fantasy football trophy. The gawdiness of the two together would be too much for me to bear.  

America's Next Top Model

Listen to your Momma...you two are The. Most. Beautiful. Girls in the world and you do not need a bunch of snotty judges telling you differently. Not to mention, I am supposed to tell you that true beauty comes from within.  

My Sweet Sixteen

Other than the fact that the birthday girls on this show are just downright brats, I just need to let you know that Daddy and I will never, ever have enough money to fund one of those ridiculous, over-the-top, money-is-the-root-of-all-evil birthday parties. You are lucky if we make it to Chuck E. Cheese for a pizza and 50 extra tokens on your special day. 

Girls Next Door

If Hugh is still alive by the time you are old enough to go on this show, well, then, he is not really a human. So you shouldn't be hanging around him anyway. That and the fact Daddy would NEVER, EVER, EVER let this one fly. 

Survivor

OK, this one might get us a million bucks. Chuckles, you might have a shot at this one, but Poonch, your intense fear of seaweed would be your Achilles' heel. The first strand of grass you see wrapped around your ankle would cause one of your famous "freak-outs", which I guarantee would get you voted off in the first week. And then I would feel bad for you because no one would know you at the reunion show because nobody remembers the first person voted off. 

Well, girls, I think that about covers it. Remember, Mommy loves you and will support you in WHATEVER it is you want to do. Unless it involves any of the above. 

Love you tons, 

Mommy

 

Brrrr...

It is so cold here in Chicagoland that I just might have to order myself a...

SNUGGIE!!

(The commercial as you've never seen it before...)

Keep On Rollin'

Poonch got it in her head that it would be fun for all of us to go roller skating.

[crickets chirping]

Yep, that was my reaction, too. Yay, roller skating! Fun! Woo hoo! Uh, if I was 8 and back in the third grade. I am pretty sure the last time I strapped 4 wheels onto these feet was about ohhhh, 25 years ago. Sure, Poonch, sounds like fun! Let's do it! 

I am a terrible roller skater. An even worse ice skater. And I am not even going to tell you about the time I tried to roller blade in college. I basically suck at anything that involves balance. I have never had good balance and I have already humiliated myself on this blog about certain yoga poses that I cannot master.

However, I can't tell Poonch this. Poonch, my cautious, cautious daughter who is adverse to trying anything new. If she can't perfect it, she won't do it. I love her to death, but as a parent, she frustrates the crap out of me. OK, I admit, I can be a little adverse to trying new things myself. I am a creature of habit and I like my habits. I certainly don't have any time for new ones. Anyhow, long ago I vowed to show Poonch that trying new things and not being afraid is definitely the better way to live. 

So when she begged Hubby and me to take her and Chuckles roller skating over the break, what could I say? "Sure, Poonch! Let's do it!" I said out loud even though inwardly I was cringing and was pretty sure I already felt my butt going numb from the falls that were inevitable. 

We arrived (unfortunately) at the roller rink and I swear, even though I am two states over from where I grew up, this rink was the exact same rink as the one I humiliated myself in at ages 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12. I mean, seriously, don't these places ever watch HGTV and see that modernizing is cool? This rink even smelled the same. Dank. That is the only word that came to mind. Dank. I need to use that word more often. 

We headed over to the skate rental desk. Hubby asked for roller blades (because he is cool in the roller world) and we got the girls their skates. The bored teenager asked me what size I needed and I thought, OMG, I have never asked for a pair of roller skates in an adults size 9! They are huge! And heavy!

I got the girls in their skates, waiting until the very...last...minute to put mine on. Reluctantly, I strapped those death contraptions onto my feet. I looked down. OMG. I don't care what age you are, what school you went to, how much money you have, what kind of car you drive, or what neighborhood you live in, when you put on roller skates, YOU LOOK LIKE A DORK. It doesn't matter how good your jeans looked when you left the house, because they sure as hell don't look good now with a pair of clumsy brown stinky boots with orange wheels topping off those jeans.

Slowly, I stood up. All those insecure feelings I had 25 years ago came rushing back. No, I thought, I am going to do this! Unsteady, I made my way onto the rink. I looked back at Poonch who was watching me, and I swear the look on her face said, OMG, my mom is a dork. 

She must have felt bad for me, because she did skate around the rink with me. She is not very good, which worked out great for me because I basically hid my non-skating talent by pretending to help her. You know, going r.e.a.l.l.y slow and using the wall. Even better was skating with Chuckles, who had never skated before in her life (all of 4.5 years). She was a great cover. I thought I had them fooled until I overheard this conversation between the two of them once we had returned home:

Chuckles: I think I did really good! I even did better than you!

Poonch: No, but you did do better than Mom. 

Sadly, it's true. 

 

Winter Vacation Conversation

Me: Chuckles, you need to stop bothering your sister so much. You are kind of driving her crazy. 

Chuckles: I am? 

Me: Yes, you are. 

Chuckles: But, Mom, that is my job! I am silly!

Me: Sigh.

Friday Foto (a day late)

Unfortunately for the kids in our family, no one gets to open gifts on Christmas Eve until everyone is finished with dinner. 

Chuckles lost her patience during the first course. 

Happy (belated) Friday. 

She's a Joker

Poonch has been into jokes lately. In the mornings she regales us with the jokes printed on the cereal boxes, and in the afternoons she comes home with a new joke that traveled on that day's playground grapevine. 

Here is her current favorite:

Poonch: Why did the chicken cross the park?

Me: I don't know, why?

Poonch: To get to the other slide.  Sllllliiiiide, get it? 

At this point both Poonch and Chuckles break into guffaws of laughter. Especially Chuckles, who wants to let her big sis know how funny she is. 

Not to be outdone, this morning Chuckles announced that she had a few jokes of her own:

Chuckles: Why did the cat eat the dog food?

Me: I don't know, why?

Chuckles: Because he was hungry. 

At this point, Poonch just stares at Chuckles, and I am the one to guffaw. 

Noticing that Poonch didn't laugh, Chuckles tries again:

Chuckles: Why did the chicken eat the road?

Me: I don't know, why?

Chuckles: Because he didn't want the cars to drive on it. 

Now, I never thought that I had the sense of humor of a 4-year-old, but to me, this is hysterical. I am still laughing. And the fact that maybe only me and possibly Hubby would find this funny makes me laugh even more. 

 

Mom's Day Off

Chuckles found out that I was going to serve turkey sandwiches for lunch today, her most despised lunch. To her, nothing is worse. She decided to take matters in her own hands under guise of giving me the afternoon off. Gee, she is so sneaky. Doesn't this peanut butter sandwich look much more appetizing than any turkey sandwich I could make? 

Wii Are Younger Than Wii Look

So much to talk about today.  

I could mention the fact that I finally went to the eye doc and got new contacts and new glasses.  When you are as blind as me, this is a big deal. 

OR I could mention the fact that Poonch had picture day today, and doing her hair this morning proved harder than figuring out our current economic mess. 

OR I could mention that we had to take our dog to the vet today because he has hot spots on his back paws, which are now wrapped in gauze.  And we have to give him antibiotics (remember, this is our free puppy).

OR I could mention the fact that my daughter's Brownie troop had a meeting today, and in a moment of complete lunacy last spring, I had volunteered to co-lead the troop, which means every other Tuesday evening I am in a great need of a large glass of cab sav.  

But, I am not going to mention this stuff.  Instead, I will talk about the Wii Fit.  My friend's mom managed to score one of these for me.  I didn't even know what the box looked like because these things sell out around here like hotcakes. Anyhow, last night my hubby and I hooked it up and got ready to have a night of fun.  OK.  I had NO idea that the Wii can weigh you, figure out your BMI, and tell you how old your body really is.  

WHAT THE???  

Isn't this supposed to be a video game, for crying out loud?  You know, entertainment?  Tell me, how entertaining is it when the VIDEO GAME tells you that your body's physical age is 12 years older than your actual age?  

WHERE IS THE FUN IN THAT?????

Screw that damn Wii Fit.