2011: Not the Year of the Busy Mom

I am concerned about the data that must exist about “busy moms” and their interests – particularly as it relates to the design and marketing of wall calendars and agendas. You should be concerned too… Someone is spending time and money researching this demographic in order to offer products that will generate income. Sadly, the resulting products are infantile and cartoonish, which obviously means that is what the market supports.

The next time you are browsing the calendar section at Barnes and Noble, take note. Squint your eyes and look for the yellow cartoony area – now focus.

I told you.

In the bid to win her business, marketing professionals saturate the packaging with information about the calendar’s hundreds of happy little stickers (soccer practice, doctor appointments, celebrations) that the suicidal mom can use in her new calendar. They might be meant as a subliminal message…

“There, there little lady. No need to engage your brain. Just keep up the good car-pooling work and have supper on the table by 5:30. These pretty stickers will make it all seem fun! You’ll see. Now run along.”

I love a pretty calendar or agenda, I admit it… something to take the tedium out of the scheduling of my weekly meetings with my parole officer… but my ability to process fairly complex thoughts (Where am I? Where are my kids? What’s for dinner? Does little Billy play baseball? If so, when and where?) also means I haven’t found the right one yet. I’ve shopped around, too – the selection at Amazon really might be a practical joke.

I guess I will hold on to my $13.95, unless one of these beauties suddenly excites my hypothalamus:

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A Meeting of The Eyes

Image via Wikipedia

Sigh. My new physical therapist is kind of shy.

No eye contact.

Eye contact is important when you communicate with other humans… window to the soul and all that.

He also struggles to make small talk, which is at the opposite end of the spectrum from my last boyfriend… or physical therapist… you know what I meant. He would no more presume to touch my hip flexor than to break into a tap dance number.

“So, what do you do besides run?” he asked, as he gazed at the wall. I didn’t know if he meant in my free time or in addition to side-to-side squats with a band around my ankles.

I really didn’t.

“Do you mean… like… do I have a job?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well, I’m a stay-at-home mom and I ummm…

No. I don’t have a job.”

“Oh. That’s good. That’s good.”

It was ridiculous. I smiled over at him and laughed, but I think I embarrassed him.

Jesus. He probably thought I was laughing at him, but I swear I wasn’t. I was laughing at his pleated pants, and that is not the same thing. I think he may have loosened up a bit by the end of the hour, but he’s very formal so I can’t be sure.

One hour together… twice a week… for months.

But don’t worry, I’ll corrupt him by next Thursday… he might even say a bad word, like “hell” or “damn”, but at the very least he will look me in the eyes.

Poor guy.

It’s Fine When YOU Say It, Though

Among other things I’d rather not be called, “bestie” is at the top of the list. Perhaps you’re thinking, “Why ever not?! It’s supposed to be a compliment to the receiver!” I am aware of this, and maybe for the under twenty crowd it works. At my age, though (38), there is something desperate about it… it implies a neediness, particularly because it usually accompanies a facebook post with a picture of women out at a bar :

“Look at me! I’m down with the cool kids – here are some of my hot besties to prove it.”

It makes me uncomfortable – not the photograph of the women, but the cleavage-enhancing, wrinkle-reducing, double-chin-camouflaging angle from which it is taken. And then “bestie” on top of it pushes me into the beginning stages of depression.

Urban Dictionary defines besties as:

Friends who have each other’s backs, look out for each other, spend lots of time together, and are just really good friends. They have inside jokes together, they go to the park and swing on swing sets, get ice cream, go to the beach, go to concerts, go bowling, and basically any activity that they like doing together as friends.

So unless you’re still swinging on swing sets with me or referring to our activities as something we do “together as friends”, let’s just skip the bestie.

These women, by the way, are NOT besties. Just great friends.

A Sad Tail

When I was in 2nd grade I learned about homophones – words that are pronounced the same but have different meanings (bear and bare).

I didn’t know what homophone meant yet (and frankly won’t remember what it means by this time tomorrow) but I did know the correct pronunciation of most three-letter words, including tin, ten, and tan. In my mind these were clearly not homophones; sadly, I was about to be taught differently.

“These words are pronounced the same, but each has a different meaning,” said Mrs. L. She read them aloud as she wrote them on the chalkboard… “Tin [tin], tin [ten], and tin [tan].”

“Blah blah blah,” was all I heard after that. I was offended by her ineptitude. Concerned, even. What in the hell was she talking about?

I told my parents about it but I don’t recall them being terribly worried… maybe they assumed I would not be so easily swayed. I never pronounced them words tan and ten like tin, though, so I guess they was rite.

Today my 7-year-old daughter is in 2nd grade and recently misspelled the word “whisk” on her spelling test.

Please see the correction made by her teacher.

I spanked ’em both.

It’s a Freckle, Fool

“I have a nipple on my arm,” said my 4-year-old.

“Well, that is unfortunate. You should probably have that looked at”* said I. “No not by me! Get away from me… that’s disgusting.”

She’s said it in public to her sister, too, as in “You have a nipple on your cheek, sister.”

It’s really quite embarrassing. Not the word nipple so much, as the having one on her cheek.

*As much as it kills me to end a sentence with a preposition, I often do. I just want to.

Stay With Me Here

Image via Wikipedia

Ahem.

I am incredibly proud to be the one to share this with you. Some of you undoubtedly know of it already, but those of you who do not are about to be exposed to a whole new world. A world of cool tricks, lessons learned, and beautiful dancey dances. The world of Yo Gabba Gabba.

To refer to it as a children’s show is pushing the limit, but based on the ads for Pillow Pets during the show, that is the target audience. Following are titles to some of the song and dance routines:

“Don’t Eat Me, I’m Dirty”
“I Like Bugs”
“Kites Are Fun”
“There’s a Party In My Tummy”

Assuming you don’t have all day to watch Yo Gabba Gabba episodes, I’m happy to share these lyrics from the brilliantly entitled “Don’t Bite Your Friends”:

Don’t bite your friends. Don’t bite your friends. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t bite your friends. We don’t wanna bite. We don’t wanna fight. ‘Cause that’s not right. Bite. Bite. Bite. No. No. No. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. [he’s eating food here, kids… he is NOT biting his friends…and “he”, for the record, is a giant rubbery red bumpy one-eyed phallic character] Yes. Yes. Yes.

Truly… ad nauseum.

I kept thinking I must be the only adult who thought it was hilariously bizarre… until one day Jack Black appeared as a special guest. Then Supernova. The Roots. Tony Hawk. Biz Markie. Jimmy Eat World. So I guess what I’m saying is I wasn’t the only one.

I realize soon I will lose you to the links calling for you below, but first let me say if anyone can teach kids how to razzle dazzle, it’s Leslie Hall. I should know. I’ve watched it a hundred times.

Dancey Dance…

Cool Tricks!

Don’t Bite Your Friends (don’t don’t don’t)

“I Know What Dead Is”

Eavesdropping on my 4-year-old as she talks nonstop to Woody (Toy Story). I think maybe she was originally plotting to kill him, then changed her mind and tried to save him… ultimately, though, (spoiler alert) he’s dead.

I swear this is exactly what she said…

“I know what being dead is. You stick your tongue out and close your eyes and wake up in the morning.  But that’s probably not quite right and he’s gonna be dead in 5 seconds so I better hurry up… if I don’t give him a shot NOW he’ll die.

“Ooouuucchhhh” (said Woody).

Ok. You have to get your shot right in the heart. Ok?”

I just told her it was time for dinner.

She threw Woody on the floor and said:

“THAT’S  being dead.” 

Ugly-Ass Shoes

I know, I know. You think they work. You want them to work.

You spent $350 on teeter-totter shoes in your quest for a Photoshop body.

Guess what?

They don’t work.

Do Toning Shoes Really Work?

Cheese.

Very very very very.

Very.

Good.

Photographer.

Read all about it… then hire him.

Adam Murphy Photography

Adam Murphy Photography Blog

A Fool and Her Money

“Why do you have so much makeup?!!” you might blurt out if you have Tourrette’s and access to my makeup drawer. I wouldn’t answer because in this scenario I wouldn’t be there… just you, creepily pawing through my makeup and “products”.

I like (and by like I mean capital LUST after) “product”. “Product” is industry-speak* for the age-defying bullshit I am forever suckered into buying. The part of my psyche that is in denial when it comes to gravity and the passage of time completely takes over and behaves, at best, like a drunken housewife from Orange County.

The worst part? I get that crap home and don’t use it because it was so expensive. Too expensive to actually use.

Well, maybe that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is that I don’t believe it does a mother-friggin’ thing. What am I, an idiot? No one would ever know if it really worked anyway.

Do you use it consistently for six weeks?

In a row?

Liar. No one does that.

* fabricated