Category Archives: Daily Chaos

September 3, 2010 · 11:46 am

Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Mo

Well, the back-to-school shopping frenzy is over for the most part and I couldn’t be more thrilled, having survived the ordeal with yet a few marbles to my name. My two kidlets have once again returned to the world of books and pencils, and the crippling sense of urgency I felt to outfit and clothe them appropriately has now passed. Amen.

No longer will I look at a rack of insanely discounted apparel and feel the need to devour it, stuffing armload upon armload of garmentage-I’ll-never-use-but-God-this-is-cheap into my cart like a maniac. Nor will I be inclined to haul my brood to 17 different stores in search of the perfect (fill in the blank with an infinite array of gotta-have-it items for the first day of school or I’ll die), pausing only to refuel, to wade through the carnage in the aisles and to visit the loo roughly 600 times in a period of 10 hours. Nope, we’re done with that foolishness. The gods have smiled upon me and my heart is glad.

But it certainly was an epic event—a shopping marathon worthy of high praise and recognition from a husband who refused to participate (except when it came to the “fun stuff” like buying soccer gear and doling out soft pretzels). That aside, I guess I expected a certain degree of pain and suffering to accompany such a woeful duty; but I never imagined the misery that would come to define our lunchbox selection process. It was pure agony. And a complicated matter at that.

More specifically, neither child appeared to be satisfied with the offerings. And by satisfied I mean COMPLETELY AND WHOLLY ENTHRALLED WITH EVERY LAST FLAP, POUCH AND ZIPPERED COMPARTMENT, TO INCLUDE SHAPE, SIZE, MOLECULAR STRUCTURE AND PICTURISH THINGIES CONTAINED WITHIN AND ON SAID LUNCHBOXES. Grok!

At one point, I felt hopelessly bound within a Dr. Seuss nightmare. Thing 1 and Thing 2 ostensibly found fault with everything lunchboxish and were virtually incapable of making a decision. (So much for the eenie-meenie-miney-mo method).

“I do not like them, Sam-I-am! Not one will suit my bread and jam. I do not like them with a fox. For lunch, I need a pinkish box. I do not like this stupid pouch. Stop rushing me; I’m not a grouch! I would not could not on this shelf. I want to pick one by myself. I do not like them in this store! Take me, take me where there are more!”

Five stores and two meltdowns later, we were still deeply immersed in the absurdity our day’s undertaking had become. I seriously toyed with the idea of offering a pony to the first child who suggested that brown-bagging it was suddenly cool.

At that point I called for reinforcements (the husband), since I was sure the madness would never end and I knew someone would need to raise the children once I had gone off the deep end. Dozens upon dozens of possibilities then lay at our feet—because our lovely charges felt it was necessary to yank them off the shelves (with glee) in order to examine them more closely (i.e. to Kid Test them and to eventually place the ones that received a passing grade in a nice, little clump on the floor—the Maybe Pile).

After a time, their tactics morphed from strange to even stranger. One child encircled the other with eight or more viable options from the heap of maybes, engaged in some sort of ritualistic rain dance and then instructed her to squat down and start spinning. Yes, spinning like a giant Spirograph around and around until one glorious lunchbox shouted out to her, “Pick me! Pick me!”

Soon, curious onlookers gathered in the aisle. Some were amazed. Others, amused. We had become a spectacle of sorts and everyone apparently wanted to be there when the final verdicts came in. I just wanted it all to end—before sunrise.

And end it did. Finally. A green ogre for one and three pink princesses for the other. It seemed simple enough on the surface, but I knew better. Choosing a lunchbox was a complicated matter after all. And sadly, the virtues of eenie-meenie-miney-mo were all but lost on my crew.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

This piece also appeared on the blog of the lovely and talented Susan Heim: (aka Susan Heim on Parenting).

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Kid-Speak, Rantings & Ravings, School Schmool, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as Dr. Seuss, dysfunction, humor, kids, lunch boxes, Mommie Dearest, moms, parenting, school, shopping

August 21, 2010 · 10:59 pm

Free to a Good Home…Or to a Mediocre Home in Which an Idiot Who Is Incapable of Saying “No” Resides

So there’s this guy. He will remain nameless in order to protect and preserve his stupidity. And I will remain clueless as to why he chose me as the supposed answer to his prayers late one afternoon several years ago. Perhaps it’s because I exude ignorance and vulnerability much of the time. Eh, maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’m just so gosh darned kind and compassionate.

But I digress. The event unfolded thusly.

My telephone rang and on the other end of the line was a man who was anxious. A man who was fraught with despair. A man who was woefully desperate to unload a cat that he would later INSIST was mine.

“Hello?”

“Hello, yes I believe I have your cat. She’s been here at my house for days and days and simply won’t leave. Could I swing by—say in about 10 minutes—so you could take a look to be sure? Otherwise I’ll have to take her to the SPCA—tonight—because I just can’t have this cat here anymore. It’s got to go.”

“You say you have my cat? MY cat? How on earth did you come to the (grandly erroneous and completely irrational) conclusion that it’s my cat you have?” I queried, curious as to how this man’s brain even functioned well enough to pluck ear hairs. What’s more, how did he know I even owned a cat? Maybe I had a pet hamster. Or a goat or something gerbil-ish lurking about.

“Well, your cat is black, right?” he quizzed.

“Right,” I answered, wondering how he knew that, too. I’d never met the man. How could he possibly know me—or my cat!?

“And he has a touch of white on his chest and belly,” I added like a fool. All the while I spoke, I had the stupid phone wedged under my chin and was running around the house like a madwoman lifting blankets and pillows, crawling around on all fours to peer beneath cabinets and couches, tearing apart the little cardboard nest my kids had built for him…frantically scanning the cluttered world in which I live for that fuzzy-headed nitwit of mine with chipmunk breath and a king-sized swagger. Had he escaped into the great outdoors? Again!? Of course, I felt horrible—like a slipshod mother who possessed not one stinking clue regarding the whereabouts of her whiskered and wayward son. Grok!

“Quick! Help me find Mr. Binks!” I shrieked to my kids, burying the receiver in an armpit—calling in the cavalry to help with the search and recovery effort.

“With white paws, too?” he asked. “This cat has white paws.”

“No. Binks’ paws are black. PLAIN BLACK. He has a bit of white on his chest and belly. Just a bit. But mostly he’s BLACK,” I clarified. Again.

“Well she’s a black and white cat and she’s a reeeeeally nice kitty, but I can’t keep her—like I said. I have other cats you know. She’ll definitely have to go to the SPCA,” he repeated emphatically—as if his insistence and caked on layers of guilt would suddenly make me realize, “Yes, come to think of it, my cat does have white paws! I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking! I must have imagined they were completely and entirely BLACK. Silly me.”

And so the debate continued over the black/white issue—ad nauseam, until I happened to think of another inconsistency in his story.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “My cat’s male. And neutered at that. You keep saying ‘she.’ Are you sure the cat you have is female? Because the one I have isn’t. He’s definitely a he. Not a she.”

He paused briefly, but the wheels were turning. Perhaps that strange little man thought that by saying it enough times and by closing his mind to the undeniable facts, he could actually WILL his cat into being mine—convincing not only himself in the process, but whoever happened to be on the receiving end of his spiel.

“Good grief!” I thought. “If only I could FIND the furry little shit! Then the ugliness would simply go away and I wouldn’t have to deal with this delusional individual anymore or with his silly stray. I could show him Mr. Binks, inky paws and all, and prove that HE DIDN’T HAVE MY FRICKING CAT—I DID!” Wishful thinking. Binks was nowhere to be found.

“We can’t find him, Mommy,” my incompetent progenies announced. “Maybe the nice man really does have Mr. Binks.”

“No he doesn’t, you inane twerps,” I muttered through clenched teeth, again with the receiver jammed under an armpit. “He’s around here SOMEWHERE!” I insisted. “Keep looking! KEEP LOOOOOOKING!!”

“Well, I guess you could come by,” I offered (to placate the crowd). “But just for a minute.” Since I can’t seem to locate my moronic ball of fluff at the moment! So he put Her Furriness in a cardboard box poked full of air holes and proceeded to shatter the land speed world record—racing to my home in six minutes flat. Lovely. Just lovely. A delusional man who is also punctual.

Fortunately, my charges found our cat in the mean time—mercilessly torturing something mole-ish in the back yard. “Look, Mommy! Binksy’s playing with his food!” they reported with glee. I marched out the door, cleverly scooped up the unwilling participant and locked him in the basement—proof positive that the numbskull was, in fact, in my care. Now I could deal more effectively with Mister I’ve-Got-Your-Cat—I-Know-I’ve-Got-Your-Cat!

After coming to an abrupt stop and an even more abrupt “hello,” the man leapt from his car and scurried around to the passenger side where the box lay in the back seat. “Here she is!” he announced, giddy with the prospect of unloading that which he longed to unload.

“Well, actually…I found my cat. He’s in the cellar. Really, he is. I’m so sorry, but this is not my cat.” I took a peek anyway. Naturally, I tried to be sensitive and to carefully explain what had happened without gloating or gushing over the glorious news that I (apparently) had been right. I. WAS. SO. RIGHT! Yes I was! Not surprisingly, the hapless cat in question looked almost nothing like Mr. Binks. She was enormous in comparison, much much older than our fuzzy feline and had HUGE patches of white all over her body—more like a Holstein than anything. And she happened to be long-haired—a detail that somehow never made it into our conversation.

At any rate, the man and his cat finally went away, tails dragging and heads hung low. I felt completely awful. Honest, I did. Like a despicable creature devoid of remorse or compassion. A shameless schmuck who failed to rise to the occasion and offer a helping hand. Like someone who under ordinary circumstances is virtually incapable of saying “no.”

But who managed this time.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Cat Chronicles, Daily Chaos, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as cats, dysfunction, humor, kids, Mommie Dearest, parenting

August 15, 2010 · 9:44 pm

Small Potatoes

My husband and I argue over some of the most inane things on the planet—like the cubic circumference of vegetable chunks I add to meatloaf. Like whether or not ketchup ruins said meatloaf. Like whether to twirl or cut (Gasp!) linguini. How to open an envelope. Seriously. To tuck (or not tuck) sheets. How the bills ought to be arranged in one’s wallet. Whether one should carry a wallet at all. How the lawn ought to be mowed. The laundry, folded. The driveway, shoveled. Whether it’s eggshell or ecru. Let or leave.

It’s small potatoes really. All of it. So is the idiocy at the very core of our latest and greatest debate—the matter of dealing with poo. More specifically, dog poo. Round and round we go each day—wrangling over the wisdom of carrying a trusty Ziploc bag, a wad of Kleenexes and a teensy-weensy bottle of Purell on our jaunts with Jack, “just in case” he makes a deposit where he ought not to make a deposit (i.e. in someone’s lawn, driveway or smack in the middle of our heavily-trodden street).

I, for one, think it’s ludicrous to lug said poopie paraphernalia around. It’s entirely unnecessary, completely assumptive and downright spineless to plan for the disaster that may, in fact, never occur. The Boy Scout I married, however, begs to differ. Mister Preparedforanythingandeverything insists that traveling with hand sanitizer and a sandwich baggie (turned inside-out for added convenience) is one of the most sensible and socially responsible things a dog owner can do. So much for living on the edge, throwing caution to the wind and prudence under the bus. And never mind the off chance that Mister Fuzzypants could indeed do his business right where we want him to—making the whole blasted issue a nonissue.

Unlike the man who could likely produce anything in an instant (from biodegradable camouflage toilet paper to a fingernail file), I’d like to think I identify more closely with the rebels of the world—like the cool jocks in tenth grade who never wore coats, brown-bagged it or carried an extra pencil to class. They traveled light to and from their celebrated lockers. So do I—at least when I walk the dang dog. No namby-pamby foolishness encumbers me. Nope. What’s more, I refuse to be hampered by a pooper-scooper device (i.e. a glorified burger flipper in which the “gift” can be both housed and transported efficiently). Besides, I’m resourceful—some would even argue eco-friendly—when it comes to dealing with poo, and I don’t need some fancy-schmancy gizmo to master the mess my dog makes. Not when perfectly good oak and maple leaves are at my disposal.

At least that’s what I used to think—before disaster rained down on me like a scourge during one of those merry excursions around the block late last fall. As luck would have it, Jack felt compelled to unload in someone’s immaculately manicured lawn; and despite my insistence that that was not an especially good idea, the little miscreant did it anyway. I was then faced with a supreme challenge: to somehow scoop it up (with leaves that were nowhere to be found), move it across the street (careful not to drop it or the leash which was tethered to the dog, now wild with delirium over his recent doo-doo success) and fling it deep into the brush—where no one, ostensibly, would trod upon it. It was a tall order, indeed. And although I doubt there was an audience, the scene had to have been indescribably amusing as it unfolded frame by humiliating frame.

Frantically I searched the vicinity for the leaves that were EVERYWHERE just days before, settling for what I could find—some pathetic-looking scraps of leafy matter with which I planned to wrap those nuggets of repulsiveness, still warm and disgustingly steamy. Of course, nothing went smoothly. The foul matter in question refused to cooperate, hideously fusing itself to the grass and failing to remain intact as I gathered and scraped in vain. Naturally, this necessitated that I shuffle across the road not once, but SEVERAL times, hunched over my stench-ridden prize as if it were the last lit candle on earth.

All the while, my silly dog danced and pranced alongside me, hopelessly entwining my legs with the leash, thoroughly convinced that I was playing some sort of twisted version of Keep-Away. Needless to say, pieces of poo kept dropping onto the pavement behind me—a Hansel and Gretel trail of repugnance that mocked my efforts, sorely lacking though they were. I had no choice but to painstakingly pick them up and hurl them into oblivion along with the rest of the gunk—all the while preventing the dog from snatching them out of my hand or chasing them into the brush. Eventually, the deed was done. There was but a tiny reminder of the episode lingering on my fingertips and aside from the humiliation I suffered, I had escaped relatively unscathed.

Indeed, small potatoes.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Doggie Diamonds, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as dogs, dysfunction, humor, husbands, madness, poo, tirades

August 1, 2010 · 11:48 pm

Seize the Summer!

It’s summertime. A scrumptious slice of the calendar devoted to kicking back and drinking in all the goodness a slower pace has to offer. A time to reflect upon what has transpired in this harried life since the days of early September. A time to consume shameful quantities of sweet corn, to ogle tan lines and to permanently etch upon our minds the abundance of produce, the warmth of the sun and the sea of green now present at our doorstep. Come January, we’ll doubt it will ever return.

Aah, dear summer—for you I have waited so long. And I shall savor every drop of laid-back-ness you exude. And yet, there is more—your season represents a grand and glorious opportunity for getting things done. Things we wouldn’t normally pencil into a maxed out schedule. Throughout the year we gather and garner a host of hopeful projects, solemnly promising to paint this, sell that, visit here, organize and clean there—banking on the completion of virtually everything we set out to do. In a word, we’ll get it done. This summer.

As a kid, I remember thinking that the delicious months of June, July and August were roughly equivalent to the Paleozoic Era, generously supplying my cronies and me with a wealth of endless days for building forts, orchestrating baseball games and designing rafts for numerous (and sadly, futile) attempts at creek crossings. September seemed so very far away.

Since then, decades have come and gone. I now recognize that summer is, indeed, a finite chunk of time capable of slipping through one’s fingers like grains of sand. Occasions for doing and seeing that which I deem worthy (to include lazy afternoons spent in the sandbox with my kids) are perhaps not quite as plentiful as I once thought. That said, I’ve endeavored to seize what is left of summer by compiling a list of the ordinary and not so ordinary things I’d like to accomplish on or before September 1^st.

1) Finally, FINALLY take my heathens to Knoebels at least once before they head back to school (inspired, of course, by the incessant whining to which I’ve been subjected since the first week of June). “Mom, my ENTIRE CLASS has already been to Knoebels—that’s 22 families, you know!” Note to self: Guilt is an extremely effective motivator.

2) Learn a new language—more specifically, Pokemon. The driving force behind this particular goal is so that I might communicate with my Pokemon-obsessed children. “Mom, I got Zigzagoon, Pidgeotto, Zubat and Voltorb and all I had to do was trade my Grimer! Isn’t that entirely AWESOME?!!” Sadly, I don’t get it. But I’m hopeful that by September, I will.

3) Convince my brood that certain things in life are of vital importance (especially as it relates to living with me)—like remembering to flush the toilet, to brush that shock of hair once in a great while and to fight the urge to litter the earth (or my floors and furniture) with wet suits and towels. Ugh.

4) Actually FINISH something I’ve started—like a book, any number of projects, a purging mission from hell (i.e. an enormously cathartic event in which I chuck various items with wild abandon—most efficiently completed sans children).

5) Arrive somewhere ON TIME—parties, picnics, assorted camps and swimming lessons, church—you name it. Admittedly, I am severely deficient in the realm of time management. Even my kids know the score. “Daddy always gets us places early, Mom. Why can’t you?”

6) Train my brood to at least tolerate the ritualistic slathering-of-sunscreen (i.e. to stop hiding behind the couch and screaming, “I HATE sunscreen and I HATE how it tastes! Do you want me to eat it and DIE?!”). Likewise, it would be a welcome change if one or both progenies could perhaps consider said lotions and sprays as something other than pure and unadulterated horribleness in a can.

It’s summertime! Be sure to seize what remains!

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under "N" is for Nostalgia, Daily Chaos, Kid-Speak

Tagged as family, humor, kids, little things, love, memories, moms, parenting, projects, summertime

July 15, 2010 · 11:28 pm

Rock Star

My kids have a new hero in my friend, John (Pete) Cokefair; however, the man possesses no superpowers to speak of. He wears not a flowing, red cape or a clever mask to obscure his true identity. Nor is he capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound or even turning the slightest shade of green whilst morphing into a rage-driven, beast-of-a-thing with meaty thighs and arms of steel. And (I am overjoyed to report) he would never dream of donning square-ish pants or living anywhere near a pineapple under the sea.

And yet, in my children’s eyes, he is revered above all else. Revered for having created a symphony of earthen matter, for having masterminded a labyrinth worthy of critical acclaim, for having erected a shrine to one of their most beloved possessions on God’s green earth—rocks. Mountains of rocks. More rocks than I have ever seen amassed in one place by one set of hands in one lifetime. Forget the Man of Steel. Pete’s the Man of Stone. The Keeper of Boulderish Things.

A rock star.

Since the dawn of time my wily rock-picker-uppers have worshiped and glorified all-that-is-igneous-or-sedimentary in nature, hunting and gathering everything from wee grains of sandstone in the Deep South to massive hunks of granite in the Adirondacks. No matter where our travels have taken us, stony mementos have followed—into our pockets, into our cars, into our lives, ad nauseam. Eternally, it seems, we’ve griped about the gravel. We’ve sighed over the shale. We’ve protested the pea-sized pebbles lurking about. Our rock-strewn garage floor is no exception.

Craggy, old fossils and sleek-looking skippers alike adorn the tops of dressers and fill boxes and buckets galore, pervading the nooks and crannies of our insanely cluttered existence. Each of those ageless treasures apparently possessed a certain charm and appeal, even before being plucked so abruptly from its hollow in the dirt. Each begged to be adopted. Each extolled its many virtues, functionality and versatility chief among them (i.e. “I’m quiet and I’d make a great paperweight!”). Like fools, my husband and I fed the obsession, allowing said prized pearls to be hauled home—to be loved and nurtured as part of the family—to forever festoon my windowsills—to live beneath my every footfall. Grok!

Even the newest addition (a sandstone-hued Jeep) was scrutinized unmercifully for its rock-storing capabilities. Ned at Alexander Nissan made doubly sure the vehicle of my dreams passed muster, having personally verified its wealth of perfectly-sized and ruggedly-constructed cubbyholes—ideal for the mounds of stones sure to be squirreled away there for many moons to come. Needless to say, my charges are a tad bit passionate (read: downright fanatical) about their darling little collections.

So when given the opportunity to experience something as magnificent as Pete’s Serenity Garden (to which his stony creation is affectionately referred), my rock-loving crew jumped at the chance—practically drooling over the notion of treading upon what they believed to be hallowed ground. I assured them it would be like witnessing something sacred. Something extraordinary. Something profoundly enigmatic. In a word, it would rock their world. To be sure, they weren’t disappointed.

“Mom! Mr. Cokefair has enough rocks to make a real castle or something!”

“Yeah, and they probably weigh as much as 50 elephants! Or maybe a whole Argentinosaurus dinosaur!”

For the record, their estimates are close if not dead-on. And as expected, after devouring such a wondrous sight and running amuck along the walls and winding paths of stone, they begged for a souvenir to remind them of the grand event. “It’s a memory, Mom. Everywhere we go, we have to take something to help us remember.”

Thankfully, Pete obliged, doling out a couple of freshly washed sandstone orbs for the road. It was better than the alternative—which was tolerating the hideous clump of dog fur one of my dandies had smuggled into the car, ostensibly harvested from Daisy or Teddy, the golden retrievers with whom we had shared the day. “At least the rocks won’t make me sneeze,” I rationalized. Naturally, Pete autographed each precious keepsake, humoring the troops for my sake and salvation.