Category Archives: Home is Where the Weirdness Lives

June 30, 2010 · 10:36 pm

Flies Among Us

For me Independence Day has always marked the advent of summer, even though the calendar begs to differ. As a kid I remember thinking that the really good stuff didn’t happen until then. Not until flags were unfurled to line streets and storefronts and to flap and wave unfettered on front porches and stoops. Till parades and patriotism marched down Main Street, with bands and batons galore. Till the towering man on stilts made his way through the crowd along with white-faced clowns toting bouquets of balloons, billowing lazily in the breeze high above their heads. Till the Carnies came to town, towing tired caravans of carnival wares behind them and leaving in their collective wake barren patches of earth in the green fields of Smythe Park. Till the icy chill finally left the depths of our town pool. Till the unrelenting oppressiveness that is July and August settled in for the duration. That’s when summer officially began for me.

I suppose my children would frame the birth of this beloved season similarly, although they’d tack on a few additional milestones: like firefly sightings, serenading crickets and evenings running barefooted through the cool grass. Like sprinklers and sparklers, Frisbees and freedom and, of course drippity ice cream cones under the hot, hot sun. Like sandals and sundresses, campouts and cookouts, bathing suits and bug spray. Or like sitting in front of a box fan for hours—not so much to cool off, but to revel in the rattles and croakiness one could instantly produce by singing into it. “That’s so cool, Mom! Must be summer’s finally here!”

It’s certainly here alright. I know because the doors open and close roughly 600 times a day in this household and the flies are among us. The ones that have made my kitchen table a landing strip, my countertops a veritable garden party and my windows a rumored path to freedom—or perhaps to an untimely death. “Mommy, let me make him all squishy. I can do it. I watched you before.”

Gak! The thought of squishing and squashing and smearing the innards of said vileness all over my perfectly fingerprinted windows and cabinetry makes me ill. Yes ill. Yet allowing the loathsome creatures to willfully buzz everywhere, in that completely frenzied, pinball-like state we all know and love, bumping and banging into every blasted thing in the house and spreading God-knows-what kind of germage far and wide is worse. Far worse. It’s beyond repulsive and fast approaching hurl-worthy from my perspective.

Oddly enough, it’s the buzzing that bothers me most as the winged beasts (i.e. flying Raisinettes) ricochet here and there in a panic, pausing only to rest and to resonate in the presumed safety of corners to the annoyance of all. I especially abhor the characteristic hum of those big, hairy boxcar types—the Airbus of house flies. The sort that spits and sputters like an overburdened engine gasping for life, careening toward the earth at an alarming rate, preparing to crash and burn—or to plaster my windows yet again. But it’s the maddening drone in the air that I dread most.

Apparently, my children do not share my hatred of this summertime pest. In fact, a few years ago they were into naming the silly things. Frank. Fuzzy-head. Buzz. Whatever seemed fitting at the time. They even had the audacity to befriend them and to talk to them on occasion, to coax them into leaving our humble abode—preferably unscathed and well-fed.

Now, however, they find the mangy things to be a great source of amusement. They still name them, although they’re just as likely to kill, maim or imprison them indefinitely as they are to converse with them or to set them free. “Look, Mommy! I whacked Frank right out of the air with the swatter and then pounded him into the carpet (read: beat him into submission) ALL BY MYSELF! Let’s call Daddy at work! Just like I did when I lost my tooth!”

And so we did. I could think of nothing more newsworthy on earth to report—except for maybe the fact that she and her cohort had given some hapless caterpillars and worms a bath earlier in the day.

No doubt about it. Summer’s here!

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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

Tagged as dysfunction, family, house flies, humor, kids, moms, parenting, summertime

June 19, 2010 · 6:00 am

Afternoon Delight…Not

I now know why I decided not to return to the world of work once my children were old enough to enter kindergarten—and now, the first grade. It’s so that I would be afforded ample resources (read: voluminous amounts of wine) and time (read: the entire school day) to recharge my batteries, drained as a consequence of Mom Duty. Translation: To reclaim (at least in part) my sanity amidst the swirl of chaos and the din of despair that together govern my household from the moment my wily charges step off the school bus until they return to their educational Mecca via the same yellow beast-of-a-thing, sixteen hours and 13 minutes later.

But who’s counting?

Had I chosen to reenter the private sector back at that critical juncture in time, I doubt said recharging would have ever been possible. Not in the space of a typical workday. Not without Club Med. I’d have been suitably compensated for my vast array of skills and services, however; a notion almost completely foreign to me now. What’s more, I’d have been able to wear something besides slacker sweatpants from morning till night, I’d have been appreciated for my efforts (ostensibly anyway) and I’d have been surrounded by individuals who could very likely tie their own shoes and flush a toilet without prompting. Nevertheless, I made what I believed to be an informed decision, hid all my marbles and moved forward into the next phase of motherhood—never once looking back.

And yet sometimes, I do look back. Moreover, I question the wisdom of that decision. Such was the case a few weeks ago when the afternoon from hell unfolded thusly (with items 2-6 occurring simultaneously):

1) Thing 1 (i.e. inconsolable child) got off the school bus—sporting a monstrous blob of chocolate on her coat (the PASTEL PINK one I had laundered not 24 hours earlier). “Mommy! Mommy! Sadie did it! She squished my Hershey’s Kiss ALL OVER MY GLOVES AND COAT AND DON’T YOU KNOW CHOCOLATE DOESN’T EVER EVER COME OUT?!!” she sobbed into my chest. Thing 2 (i.e. blithesome child) frolicked about the place, seemingly unaffected by the accusations against her. To add to my immeasurable joy, I later learned that her coat was festooned as well with unsightly gobs of chocolate.

2) Despite having spent the previous hour outside (with every possible opportunity to relieve himself!) the dang dog peed a veritable deluge inside, missed a good portion of his puppy pad and the resulting puddle of whiz-a-ma-call-it proceeded to trickle (okay, flow rapidly) underneath said pad where IT COULD NOT BE ABSORBED. It could only be sopped and smeared and sloshed the world over with great masses of paper towels—which were NOT on sale, mind you.

3) After consuming an outrageous portion of fresh grass, our gluttonous cat decided it was time to hurl. Profusely. In the middle of the kitchen floor (not to be confused with the neat little pile of dung he left for me in the corner of the living room earlier in the day). Who knows—maybe he was still somewhat annoyed with me for having ignored his incessant pleas for treats.

4) Thing 2 planted herself at the kitchen table (totally oblivious to the cloud of mayhem that surrounded us) and felt the compelling desire to blow bubbles the size of kumquats in her milk—in abject defiance of my vehement shrieks of protest.

5) Thing 1 demanded something to eat—immediately, or sooner. So I grabbed a hotdog roll and shoved it in the microwave, mindful not to employ the hand with which I had sopped up dog urine and scrubbed the remnants of cat vomit. Heaven forbid I actually take time to clean my hands. The child would surely starve in the interim.

6) The telephone rang. On the line was the (supposedly less needy) teenaged daughter, requesting a crucial bit of advice that only a completely composed parent could deliver. I did not qualify for the job. But I was handy.

I later came to my senses and kicked anyone and everyone under the age of seven outside to play. Unfortunately, the drama refused to dissipate and instead, intensified.

Thing 2’s hair apparently got somewhat twisted (translation: became hopelessly entwined) around “…the scary swing, Mommy!” (So named for its whirling properties). Thing 1 reported the catastrophic event, scoring a 10 for theatrical performance and believability—which led to my donning a coat (the red cape was at the cleaner’s) so that I could trek across the lawn to the place where my screaming child stood, imprisoned by a bit of braided rope. “Mommy! Help! The swing’s got me! I’m stuck! I’m really stuuuuuck!” In sum, it was a 15-minute adventure-in-parenting I’d rather not revisit. Ever.

But tomorrow’s a new day. And with any luck, I’ll be ready for whatever delights the afternoon may hold. Or not.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (clutching my last marble).

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Rantings & Ravings, Vat of Complete Irreverence, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as chaos, disorder, dysfunction, family, humor, kids, little things, madness, Mommie Dearest, moms, parenting, tirades

June 17, 2010 · 6:00 am

A Rose by Any Other Name…

For a long time I’ve subscribed to the theory, “If it walks like a duck and it talks like a duck, it’s a duck.” Nothing fancy or convoluted about that little nugget of wisdom. Nope. I’ve tried (largely in vain) to convince my poor husband of the same—especially as it relates to his muddled and dreadfully misguided view on a certain sensitive domestic issue: the proper function of a sofa.

Let’s just say for the sake of argument, that he and I have some philosophical differences in this particular department. Okay, major philosophical differences. One of us is clearly wrong, never mind mired in denial. To frame it less delicately, if the man walks and talks like a couch potato, it would logically follow that said man is a couch potato—contrary to his intolerably skewed perception. It’s not rocket science we’re talking about here, people.

In my humble opinion, sofas are intended to be sat upon, lounged upon and even napped upon for a period of time not to exceed the bounds of reason. They also function quite nicely (I’m told) as something purely decorative in nature, fashionably adorned with an array of immaculate-looking throw pillows and perfectly placed cushions—well suited to those perfectly coiffed socialites that ooze sophistication and an I’d-be-appalled-to-find-a-three-day-old-peanutbutter-sandwich-wedged-in-with-the-Legos kind of air. I used to be appalled. And I once owned such a sofa. But it was still marginally functional, I suppose—almost as functional as my kids currently consider their beloved “launch pads” to be.

Not surprisingly, they have spent a goodly chunk of their collective childhood (clad in makeshift superhero capes, barn boots and strange-looking helmets fashioned from Winnie the Pooh and Dora the Explorer underwear) leaping from the backs of those gloriously cushiony surfaces with wild abandon, saving the day roughly 42 times a week. It’s been rumored anyway. More practically perhaps, couches serve as the most ideal cover known to man—a vast and wonderful dumping ground for the mounds and mounds of unsightly rubbish (i.e. kid paraphernalia) we can only dream of trashing one day. Instead, we settle for shoving it underneath and behind the sofa—out of sight, out of mind. A mildly liberating experience, some would say. But liberating nonetheless.

It is also my impassioned belief that couches are not to be confused with beds and they should never ever take the place of anything mattressy—except where the aforementioned naps (and unabashed mid-day romps) are concerned. Nor are they meant to be crashed upon till all hours of the night, perpetuating and exacerbating that horrendous, vegetative-type state I have grown to loathe. The one pictured thusly: a certain someone’s eyelids are slammed shut, his mouth—shamelessly agape and sucking air like nobody’s business and his arm (usually the left one)—suspended in midair by some strange force yet to be determined, sprouting forth from the cushions like a tree branch, aimed directly at the television screen, of course. At the end of that bough-like appendage rests the prized remote control device, firmly cemented in place for all eternity. Heaven forbid that some fool (namely me) would try to pry it away, adjust the volume, change the channel or try and convince Mister Sofa Spud that it makes far more sense to get up and go to bed than to vegetate half the night on the blasted couch. I may as well save my breath. It’s like conversing with a head of cabbage—a mildly intriguing concept in theory, but entirely futile in practice.

“Honey, why don’t you just shut off the T.V. and come to bed already. It’s late. Reeeeeeeally late,” I suggest for the 37^th time in as many minutes. “It can’t be all that comfortable there and besides, your snoring is disturbing the neighbors. More importantly, it’s disturbing me.” (Yes, I can hear those irksome rumblings all the way upstairs—plain as anything).

He then mutters something completely unintelligible in response and I have to ask him to repeat it 16 times so I know precisely how to counter his denial of the obvious and his predictably lame attempt to justify why he’s STILL on the stupid sofa at 1:37 in the morning. Ugh.

Like I said—if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck….

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with a man who possesses a wealth of couch potato tendencies).

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Filed under Captain Quirk, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Rantings & Ravings, The Chicken Man, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as couch potato, disorder, dysfunction, family, humor, husbands, kids, madness, Mommie Dearest, moms, parenting, tirades

June 9, 2010 · 9:53 am

Opportunists Never Sleep

My children are opportunists. I know this much is true. Said seizing-of-the-proverbial-moment unfolded thusly.

My husband, the brood and I sat down to dinner one evening not long ago. The delectable fare was chili, I believe, sprinkled with voluminous quantities of idle conversation. Par for the course in this household.

More specifically, there was talk of tadpoles and those dastardly Bakugan toys, discussions involving loose teeth and dog breath, and naturally (NATURALLY!) there was a remarkably gruesome retelling of an Animal Planet feature on polar bears–one in which a woman was horrifically mauled at a zoo. Lovely. Just lovely. My appetite thanks you, dear offspring from hell.

What’s more, my co-ed daughter starting texting her boyfriend obsessively DURING THE MEAL. Did I mention that it was during the meal and that it was OBSESSIVE in nature? Not surprisingly, she was entirely unaware that the rest of us even existed. Translation: it was as if we had slipped in pig shit and fallen off the fucking planet. All that truly mattered was that beloved Blackberry of hers and the stupid little messages that kept popping up on her screen, making her giggle uncontrollably.

And laugh out loud.

And roll her eyes.

And fervently punch those teensy tiny keys in an effort to top the boy’s witticism in 160 characters or less.

Gag me with a spork!

At any rate, Thing One and Thing Two (my wily eight-year-old twins) took note of said heinous crime, scolding their big sister for interrupting the meal with something so completely frivolous.

“That’s reeeally annoying. You ought to stop it,” Thing One chided as she took a bite of cornbread.

“Yeah, put the cell phone away or Mom’s gonna get mad. REALLY mad,” Thing Two echoed.

Of course, the Texting Queen was totally oblivious of their impassioned demands–so absorbed was she in crafting the next 17,000 messages to the Boy Wonder.

“Hon,” I felt compelled to join the fray, “you need to stop texting. You really do. We’re trying to eat dinner here together, remember?”

“But Mom, HE keeps texting ME,” she lamely defended.

“So. Stop answering him.”

“I can’t do thaaaat. It would be rude.”

“And this isn’t rude?! Helloooo!”

“Well that’s different.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“Okay then…why don’t you tell him something catchy like, ‘STOP TEXTING ME. We’re having dinner right now and MY MOM ACTUALLY COOKED, so technically speaking that qualifies as a SPECIAL OCCASION!’?” Of course, I suggested the use of capital letters as needed.

For a time, a cloud of silence hung in the air. No one so much as chewed a morsel of food or touched a key. Everyone knew I was right. It WAS a special occasion.

Enter the opportunist…

“Mom,” Thing One tentatively offered out of the blue, “can I have some of your wine?”

“Whaaa?” I asked, completely taken aback by her request.

“You said it’s a special occasion, right?”

“Right. So???”

“So I should be able to have wine.”

Indeed, opportunists never sleep.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (eating my words on a regular basis).

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Kid-Speak, Rantings & Ravings, Techno Tripe, The Woman-Child, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as dysfunction, family, humor, kids, moms, parenting, techno-whateverness, texting

June 2, 2010 · 2:00 pm

It Came with the House

Lots of little extras came with the home my husband and I fell in love with a dozen or so years ago. Things you simply can’t put a price on—like the infinitely practical slab of concrete in the back yard that begs to be festooned with chalk and filled with a bevy of bikes and scooters. Never mind its intended purpose as a basketball court. Additional nuggets of goodness for which I cannot readily assign a price: its breathtaking view of the city—especially at night, its perfectly situated vantage point for savoring both sun and moonrises, the massive shade trees that pepper the property and welcome cool breezes come summertime, its sprawling sea of grass and little islands of blooming things that continue to thrive despite my anything-but-green thumb, its great canopy of pines—hollowed out to perfection for the ultimate secret hideout, the way it’s nestled into a hillside as if nature had intended it all along.

Of course, its interior boasts extras as well—like the wealth of space we never dreamed we’d need (for the voluminous and ever expanding cache of kid paraphernalia we now own). Like the creaky floors—which I’m told add character, the cavernous closets which time and again have been transformed into drool-worthy clubhouses, the generous bank of windows through which sunlight abundantly pours (even more so when I’m inspired to scrub them) and the utterly priceless feature that enables anyone at any time the freedom to flush without fear of scalding some poor schmuck in the shower. For all these inordinately precious things I have been grateful since Move-in Day 1997.

And yet, there was more.

In the garage, a riding lawn mower awaited us. It came with the house—which puzzled me greatly. “Had the sellers forgotten to take their mower? Who forgets a mower?” I had to wonder. Silent and still the 16 horsepower entity in question sat on the cool concrete as my husband and I circled to inspect it. Its less-than-pristine condition soon became apparent. It was a worn and weary, pitifully dilapidated, off-brand bastard-of-a-thing that was apparently left behind ON PURPOSE. Forsaken by its owners. Perhaps left-for-dead—or at least left to die in peace rather than to be put through the trauma of a big move. Who knew?

At any rate, we would soon adopt said woebegone tractor—for better or for worse. Of course, we didn’t expect much from this has-been, fickle-minded, backfiring beast on wheels. Surely, its days were numbered. Indeed, as any good skeptic would assert, each and every start of its engine was deemed a gift from God.

Years passed, however, and we came to learn that beneath that flimsy and oh-so-drab-looking shell beat the heart of a gladiator. A lord of the lawn. A survivor in the truest sense of the word. Granted, it was (and still is) a hideous site to behold with its obliterated grill, missing headlights, dangling bundles of wire and exposed innards (i.e. a jumbled mass of machinery that was once neatly housed under a hood the likes of which has since fallen off completely—cleverly held in place with bungee cords and whatnot). An embarrassment, for certain. It’s a wonder we haven’t been banished from the neighborhood. But the silly thing still runs. Not like a deer, mind you; but it runs nonetheless, defying all odds, baffling our poor mechanic to no end and causing passersby to turn their heads in shame.

Stranger still, the stupid thing doesn’t seem to care that virtually no one had faith in its ability to endure a lifetime of untold hardships—to include bouncing and jouncing up and down our teeth jarring terraces and maneuvering again and again the twists and turns that define our property. Further, it pays no mind to our harsh words regarding slippage on slopes, to our reprehensible commentary suggesting that a goat could perhaps do a better job or to our incessant mockery of its inferior lineage. A thick-skinned creature, to be sure.

I wonder now what sort of mileage our seasoned warrior of weeds has logged and how many exceedingly dull (yet completely joyous!) laps around our yard it has journeyed with my kids in tow and their dad at the helm, dutifully pointing out tiger lilies and tulips, birds’ nests and burrows—gradually relinquishing command of the wheel as they became more adept with each passing summer.

Needless to say, we’ve grown quite fond of our dear hunk of junk. Undeniably, it’s family now and we can’t possibly imagine life without it. That said, we’re exceptionally grateful to have found it lurking in the garage—as opposed to anything remotely suggestive of a goat.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (where the green grass grows and grows).