Category Archives: Me Myself and I

June 4, 2010 · 12:09 am

Don’t Be Cruel, Discover Card

What follows is a note—OKAY, A SHAMELESSLY BITTER AND VENGEFUL RANT—I recently sent the kind and wonderful folks at Discover.com, mostly because I so desperately needed the cathartic benefit I was sure to gain from the process. Needless to say, I felt compelled to share my tirade publicly and as a result, I am now feeling slightly human-ish. Thank you for listening….

Dear Discover.com:

Are you people kidding me?! I just spent an inordinate amount of time fishing through my purse for an inane pile of names, numbers, correct spellings and whatnot in order to register my account. Further, I’ve wasted even MORE valuable time since you automatically logged me out. Twice. I am now RETYPING the wretched thing AGAIN, thank you very little.

What I desired was really very simple. Truly, it was. I merely wanted to select one of those fancy-schmancy new designs for my current card, which is perfectly fine, mind you—yet DREADFULLY DULL in comparison to the new ones splashed ever-so-seductively across the pretty advertising flier I received this morning. Flags aflutter in the breeze. Sparkling city skylines. Sun-drenched beaches. Blue skies. Palm trees. You name it. There were 150 choices in all. Each had its own special appeal. Each was fabulously doused with color. Each whispered unremittingly, “You need me….”

But it was all for naught.

After painstakingly jumping through all the hoops you laid before me and providing you with buckets upon buckets of information you will probably never need, I learned that I CANNOT, in fact, have a grand and glorious new design because mine is just a stupid gas card—destined for a lifetime of that which is woefully plain and uninteresting.

Humor me, if you will, Discover Card people. What possessed you to plant the silly notion in my head to begin with? Don’t taunt me with the wonderfulness of things I cannot have. That’s just plain mean—like waving George Clooney’s handsome mug before me. And that online registration process—oh, the agony! What I endured was nothing short of mind numbing, never mind completely unnecessary. What ever happened to mail-ins for such foolishness? Honestly, do you think we’ve forgotten how to use stamps and drive to the post office?

All I ask is that you use a little common sense in the future. Apparently, you (or some mechanical representation of you and yours) are aware of the fact that I HAVE A GAS CARD and that its design (for some dark and mysterious reason) cannot be altered. EVER. So don’t include with my statements those happy-schmappy little fliers that sing the praises of switching to a new design. I beg of you.

It’s simply more than I can bear.

Sincerely,

Planet Mom

(An otherwise satisfied customer, yet not so much today)

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Filed under Me Myself and I, Rantings & Ravings

Tagged as humor, madness, tirades

May 26, 2010 · 12:39 pm

Cloudy with a Chance of Gnats

Lately I feel as though I’ve been thrust onto the set of a horror film. One in which the entire planet has been overtaken by a massive swarm of gnats—those unspeakably irksome creatures that I despise beyond all comprehension. Everywhere, it seems, the winged beasts are expertly poised to attack, kamikaze style—on packed playgrounds, in busy parking lots, in back yards brimming with picnickers and across vast expanses of athletic fields, lush with slick, green grass. Armies of said clusters-of-doom stand ready (they hover, actually) to unleash their merciless wrath upon the innocent and upon the fools who neglect or refuse to douse themselves with bug spray.

I have to wonder, what exactly is the purpose of the gnat—aside from wreaking havoc upon the civilized world one sufficiently annoyed being at a time? They must lurk near the bottom of the food chain, I’d surmise, serving as sacrificial sustenance for bats or birds or something toad-ish. Gak!

That said, whenever I venture outside it’s as if my head is a giant nucleus besieged by a cloud of deranged, piranha-like, helter-skelter-inspired electrons—ones inclined to gnaw upon my flesh, to become entangled in my hair, to buzz incessantly in my ears, to viciously invade my nasal cavities and to perhaps bore inside my brain where they would then read my thoughts and replace them with the idiotic notions of Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh.

Feels like a horror flick, remember?

Quite frankly, I’m sick and tired of inhaling the wretched things, of fishing their sodden carcasses from my eyes and of waving my arms like a madwoman just so I can string two coherent sentences together while conversing with someone in the great outdoors. Someone, ostensibly, flapping like a lunatic as well.

“Just keep talking!” I shout, “Never mind this insanely stupid-looking flurry of clapping and slapping and grabbing fistfuls of what I hope are DEAD BUGS! I’m still listening to you…(insert horrendous hacking noises and the sound of spitting out wads of freshly moistened gnats)…really, I am!”

Viewed from afar, and from the encapsulated havens of cars, those plagued by the loathsome vermin must truly look like a bunch of loons, swinging wildly in the air, lunging erratically to and fro, cursing at the demons thought to exist just inches away. Straightjacket material.

Yep. That’s me. The dolt on the soccer field at dusk. Wishing like crazy that I had worn a hat…so I could whack the bejesus out of them. At least there’s some satisfaction in that. “Squishing gnats—it does a body good.” Mine, that is. Not the gnat’s so much. Indeed, there’s something inherently cathartic about the process of snuffing the life out of a bothersome bug and, of course, my brood gets a huge charge out of the sadistic commentary that generally follows.

“Are you the next of kin, my dears?” (My heathens nod, eagerly awaiting the punch line)

“Well, in my expert medical opinion, Mr. Gnat had a horrible headache……..right before he became entirely flat. He is dead, I am afraid.”

It’s a completely different matter, however, when something not-so-gnat-ish dies. There are tears, rambling eulogies and makeshift tombstones (etched with names like Pooper, Froggy and Slimy) for beloved souls like tadpoles, frogs and even worms. Cats receive lengthy graveside services as one would expect and pet goldfish, a ceremonial burial at sea with a woeful dirge softly wafting in the background. Taps usually.

Gnats, on the other hand, are the scum of the earth and infinitely expendable, methinks.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (cursing at gnats and whatnot).

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Me Myself and I, Rantings & Ravings

Tagged as bugs, humor, madness, moms, spring

May 19, 2010 · 9:13 am

A Kinder, Gentler Blue Streak

Many moons ago, the editor of one of my on-line parenting communities (i.e. an addictive little pocket of people on the Net who collectively served as my personal sanity cocktail from dawn until dusk) posed an interesting question: What was my favorite curse word substitute? In brief, she wanted to know what sort of word or words I regularly use in place of the filth that I should be ashamed to admit I even know—let alone use on occasion.

Lo and behold, the topic proved highly popular among a gamut of contributors who then generated a strangely magnificent slew of cuss words, clearly and cleverly Mister Rogers-ized for the benefit of all. In fact, it could be reasonably estimated that great masses—herds actually—of moms and dads rushed to submit their entries, wearing their little fingers to the bone in the process, no doubt. Maybe it was cathartic for them. Like confessing to skipping pages in some of those dreadfully boring bedtime favorites or to having served the kidlets a less-than-wholesome snack after school more than once. Egads! Who knows, maybe it just plain felt good to come clean in a public venue—to divulge the truth about our despicable “potty mouths” once and for all. I know I felt better having shared.

As I scanned the ever-growing list of unmentionable verbiage, I was pleasantly surprised to be doused with the warmth of camaraderie that positively flourished among our motley crew. We were kindred spirits after all—parents whose buttons were routinely pushed—driven to let fly horrible (yet somehow remarkable) strings of things we should never say in the presence of our impressionable youth. Cursing that infamous blue streak, as it were (albeit, a kinder gentler blue streak). Of course, I took note of curious terms that apparently flowed like lemonade within other households—especially those nifty little nuggets of speech I had never before envisioned using in place of the real deal. Naturally, they have since been added to my inventory of things-I-can-bellow-with-wild-abandon—even in front of the kids.

Needless to say, I shared my choice phrase with the best of them, eagerly offering up the whys and wherefores of my patented utterance, “Son-of-a-buffalo!” Many agreed it was classic and had stood the test of time. It was also practical, in that it was juuuuust lengthy enough to allow for reprogramming in mid-tirade—that magical window of time during which gears shift in the language factory, the brain catches up with the lips and whatever sinful blurb that was going to be produced gets transformed into something far more G-rated. Unfortunately, I haven’t been as successful with those gloriously liberating mono-syllabic expressions—the ones that resonate with satisfaction and consummate relief. Thankfully, such instances of use are rare and I’ve had enough sense to shove a pillow over my mouth so that at best, that-which-I-shouldn’t-have-said is garbled. My theory: A muffled expletive is better than one that will be articulated perfectly at Show & Tell.

My “Son-of-a-buffalo!” submission was also thought to possess a certain element of fun. Yes, fun. It rolls off the tongue easily and naturally—almost as easily and naturally as its prototype. Almost. It’s fun for the kids, too. And by that I mean those goofy children of mine believe that said snippet is perhaps the most hilarious phrase ever spoken. Bar none. Shortly after it leaves my lips, they pummel me to death with all sorts of unanswerables. Like: “What does a son of a buffalo look like, Mom?” “How old is he?” “What’s his real name?” “Does the mom buffalo have any daughters?” I also get a lot of, “Say it again, Mom! Again! Again! And again! That’s SO completely funny!”

Good grief. Maybe I’d be better off going out with my cronies or my husband (as Crazed Parent) suggested, so that I might get that pent up vat of profanity out of my system periodically. It’s certainly worth a try. Naturally, someone would then order Buffalo wings and we’d have to cackle about the irony in that.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Me Myself and I, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as family, foot-in-mouth disease, humor, kids, Mommie Dearest, moms, parenting, tirades

May 8, 2010 · 9:54 am

What Mom Really Wants…

Mother’s Day is coming. One day and counting. I’ve marked the Almighty Calendar that hangs on our fridge with a big, fat sticker, proclaiming to one and all, “This day is IMPORTANT! Don’t you daaaaaare forget it!” And I’m sure no one will. My family loves me dearly and they’ll undoubtedly stumble over one another to shower me with adoration and gifts galore. Gifts to die for—like decadent chocolates, gorgeous, sweet-smelling bouquets of roses or something lily-ish, syrupy cards that remind me just how much I am loved and appreciated. To top it all off, they’ll probably treat me to a scrumptious meal at a fancy-schmancy restaurant—where all five of us will dine together.

Sadly, however, I’m afraid a degree of disappointment lurks just around the bend.

But don’t think for a moment that I would ever condemn my family’s attempts to make me feel extra special on Mother’s Day, because they do—and I do as a result. Each year they wow me in some remarkable way and I am eternally grateful for their well-meaning efforts. However, they often miss the mark when it comes to having a fine-tuned awareness of my innermost desires as a mom. Time and again, my motley crew fails to recognize my signals, let alone interpret them correctly. It’s sort of like watching archaeologists decipher hieroglyphics on a cave wall in order to learn what the skywriter above has written.

So I am left with but few options this Mother’s Day. I could attempt to convey my true wishes through telepathy, employing my standard-issue female mind powers to transmit messages to my brood. I could drop subtle hints by pasting colorful little notes everywhere from the dust-covered television screen to the empty milk jug, still sitting in the fridge. Or perhaps I could present my self-indulgent list of wants and needs here in a public venue, hopeful that it will be well-received and acted upon accordingly.

With any luck, the following suggestions will also be of value to other families who are eager to please Mom this Mother’s Day.

1) For starters, let Mom take a real live NAP once in a while. Not one of those namby-pamby dozing sessions on the couch that lasts for 15 minutes, rife with interruptions of the non-urgent variety. Set some hard and fast ground rules, too. No one is to disturb Mom unless the sky is falling or someone’s hair is on fire.

2) Pick up after each other. That’s what Mom does 24/7. Give her a break for Pete’s sake! That means no sneakers, underwear or sweat socks lying around for all to “enjoy,” no barbed toys lying in wait for her on the stairs and no decomposing apple cores on the coffee table or empty Cheetos bags stuffed under the sofa pillows. Muster the strength, somehow, to make it to the hamper, toy box and trash can. She manages to do it, even when she’s dead tired.

3) Relinquish the remote control for a day. Just one day. Honestly, how tough can it be? Let her choose the programming for once and don’t have a cow if she sticks with one station for more than ten minutes. The world won’t stop revolving if one less viewer tunes in to primetime rubbish geared to teens and young adults. Even Donald Trump doesn’t wield that much power and influence.

4) Remember to close things: The refrigerator door, the toilet seat and lid, the Wonder bread wrapper, the Jiff jar (‘cause your mom is a choosy mom), your dresser drawers, the back door and your mouth—to curb the spillage of all that less-than-endearing commentary that tends to flow like a river from time to time.

5) Make a concerted effort to get along with your siblings. Mom is sick and tired of blowing the whistle on all of your shenanigans. Not to mention, her wardrobe has suffered greatly since the addition of referee stripes. At all costs, refrain from causing anyone to bleed—especially on the good carpeting.

When that special day finally arrives, strive to think of Mom above all else—putting her wants and needs above your own. Really tune in to what she holds dear and what would prove to be the most meaningful to her when all is said and done.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Holiday Hokum, Me Myself and I, Rantings & Ravings

Tagged as family, humor, kids, madness, Mommie Dearest, moms, Mother's Day, parenting

April 20, 2010 · 8:41 pm

“It’s Joe the Plumber. I’ve Come to Fix the Sink.”

I love the fact that my kids have graduated to that stage where they can (and will) venture outside to blow the stink off them. Without me. Hence, I can vegetate here, blissfully tapping away at the keyboard, poised to share all the meaningless drivel I can possibly generate. And I will…I promise, all the while watching my dear heathens cavort and climb and twirl and whatever else it is that kids do to entertain themselves in the great outdoors—to include “squishing only the bad bugs, Mom.”

So now to the task of sharing meaningless drivel. Perhaps I should tell you about my most recent (and mildly immobilizing) preoccupation—that of being utterly convinced that the plumbers “…who came to fix the sink” (neither of whom was named Joe, incidentally) had every opportunity to rig up one of those hidden camera gizmos in our shower. Geez Louise, they trudged up and down our staircase and into and out of our master bath at least 60 bazillion times! Unsupervised! What in God’s name was I thinking?!!

Logically it follows that they did, in fact, install something sinister. Something unspeakably evil. Something horribly intrusive. The whole thing just creeps me out—in a Sharon Stone Sliver sort of way.

Of course, this proves I am completely insane (never mind riddled with paranoia), which makes perfect sense. Because this is how my mind works. Or doesn’t. I get something entirely absurd (like said bit of ridiculousness) wedged in my pea brain and I simply cannot let it go. I’m shampooing and lathering and warbling (at best) some silly ass song while in the shower—the one that those wonderful plumbers so expertly repaired—while secretly wondering, “How do I look? Is this stupid thing recording in color or Psycho inspired black and white? Have the idiots been kind enough to put tape over my eyes and make it look as if I’ve shaved my legs in the last century? Sweet Jesus, I hope so.”

Paranoia is a strange and crippling thing, methinks. Perhaps I need shower therapy.