Category Archives: Rantings & Ravings

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 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 24, 2010 · 10:10 am

Armadillo to Zebra

Listen closely. That’s the sound of someone gasping for breath, suffocating beneath a deluge of fuzz and fluff. A wretched soul inundated with more stuffed animals under one roof than any sane individual could reasonably imagine. A sucker for a sale on all-that-is-warm-and-fuzzy YET PROMISES NEVER TO EAT, POO or SHED. Needless to say, that someone is me.

Eternally, it seems, my brood has been consumed with faux faunae of one kind or another—mesmerized by creatures great and small, enthralled by those deemed weird and wonderful, charmed by the frighteningly fancy and the perfectly plain. That said, wooly beasts from A to Z abound in this household, atop beds and bureaus, spilling from trunks and lurking in corners, stuffed behind couches and propped up in chairs—much to my chagrin.

Translation: I’m tired of cute and cuddly—the stuffed-with-fluff blobs of whateverness that threaten to rule my world. More specifically, I’ve had enough of the dogs that howl at the moon, yap incessantly or fart on command. I’ve tolerated more than my share of earsplitting monkey shrieks, the frenzied slap of hooves on cobblestone and frog-ish croaks that sound more like a chorus of booze-inspired belches than anything. And aside from being fairly adorable and infinitely dear, those fancy-schmancy, computer savvy Whatever-kins have yet to truly wow me. Maybe it’s because I think kids should spend more time climbing trees than climbing levels online.

Yes, I kick my dear children outdoors on a regular basis and ration the time which is spent utterly fixated on the deliciousness of Poptropica and the like. Color me an ogress.

At any rate, the collective toll of all the dot-com nonsense, the pseudo mewing, hissing, chirping, bleating, barking, mooing (and whatever maddening little noises guinea pigs make) that I’ve endured interminably has driven me to seriously consider the notion of gathering the reprehensible bunch together and heaving them into the lawn.

It would be cathartic if nothing else.

But truth be told, I am part of the problem. Whenever I stumble upon something entirely irresistible, something that speaks to me for whatever reason, something my eight-year-old cherubs would deem drool-worthy in every sense of the word, I cave—feeling compelled to buy yet another bit of warmth and fuzziness for my motley crew. Despite knowing there is no room at the inn. Despite acknowledging there is no real need for such an indulgence. Despite understanding full well that I will regret having made said purchase—either immediately, or when my vacuum cleaner chokes on an errantly placed armadillo, on one of Skippyjon Jones’ enormous ears, on Walter’s hapless tail. I will then curse the day it was stitched together and stuffed with love.

I know this much is true. But I cave anyway, adopting yet another fuzzy companion for my charges. One that will be loved without end, humanized beyond all imagining, bent and twisted so as to squeeze into book bags and burrow beneath pillows. One that will be privy to innumerable secrets and included in countless conversations, eager to listen, inclined to agree. One whose care and conditioning will be entrusted to me for hours on end.

“Mom, make sure you feed Frank, and play with him while I’m gone. Remember, I’ll KNOW if you don’t do it and I’ll be really, really mad.” (Waggles finger at me as she boards the school bus and waves goodbye to Frank and me).

Even still, I continue to feed the beast, as it were—adding just one more stuffed animal at a time. One that will sit at the dinner table and oversee baths, help with homework and dangle from monkey bars. One that will be demanded at bedtime and searched for, high and low. One that will journey near and far, be read to, prayed to, listened to and befriended above all else.

Another bit of fuzz and fluff that will be welcomed into this world, unconditionally.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (suffocating beneath a deluge of stuffed animals, every one of which has a name).

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Filed under Daily Chaos, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as disorder, dysfunction, guilt, hoarding, humor, kids, little things, Mommie Dearest, moms, parenting, toys

May 21, 2010 · 12:30 pm

Hello, Misery…Your Company is Here

Lately I feel like the overstuffed mitten in that aptly titled children’s classic, The Mitten. My world, quite literally, is falling apart at the seams and I guess I’m whining because it feels good. Little else has proven effective thus far.

Of course, this is nothing new. I’ve always subscribed to the theory: When in doubt, whine it out. There’s just something about going on and on (in horrific detail) about personally troubling issues that contributes to coping—or maybe it’s the truckloads of pity I find especially therapeutic. Either way, I win. Whining also happens to deliver another benefit: It triggers within others an irresistible urge to vent in response (an enormously dysfunctional “pity party” of sorts).

You’re cordially invited.

Naturally, the venting process itself stirs the competitor within and causes a great number of individuals to spit out an I-can-top-that-train-wreck-of-an-experience-in-300-words-or-less! In short, I wind up feeling soooooooooooooooo much better after learning there are throngs of people out there WAY more miserable than I am. Thanks, in advance. I hope you share.

To spell it out… in refrigerator magnets, Seek and Destroy have been afflicted with one blasted illness after the other—FOREVER. Well, since the beginning of time anyway. It started with rotten colds (which each of the germ magnets managed to attract oh-so-handily) and progressed to a nasty ear infection—that positively refuses to go away. Then Seek, of course, felt left out and dreadfully bored with all that sneezing and coughing so she contracted strep throat to keep pace with her sister. Sprinkle an especially vile bout of pink eye into the mix (which they most generously shared with one another and God only knows who else) and that about sums up Sick-O-Central—with one exception: HIVES.

We discovered that Destroy is apparently allergic to just about every drug that contains any of the letters, A through Z. Not really, just the “cillin” family. Joy. And, as expected, we learned this key bit of information not during the week, during office hours or even where we reside. Nope. We became enlightened OVER THE WEEKEND while at a conference, AT NIGHT and roughly FOUR HOURS FROM HOME. Oh, happy day.

“What the hell are those spots?!” I grilled my husband who had spent all afternoon with the girls, swimming in the hotel pool, checking out the cool pond stocked with goldfish, and throwing rocks at the ducks. Yes, the man taught our dear children how to throw rocks at ducks. Modeled the behavior, even. That said, the ducks are okay. Really, they’re perfectly fine. Please don’t write to rail him. That’s my job.

“I don’t know. Looks like a rash,” he stated in a pitiful attempt to sound like a concerned medical professional. Damned quack. Stick to ducks already.

To make a long, boring story short and exciting, within about 38 seconds the hives grew to the size of watermelons and spread pretty much over her entire body—head to toe. For the record, they were red, and raised, and itchy and it was scary as hell for me to watch them multiply like some deranged polka-dotted plague. Thankfully, Benadryl saved the day and we didn’t have to tour Allegheny General Hospital that night, although for a time we seriously entertained the idea. At any rate, we’re home now and still up every night with one or both sicklings for one reason or another—which is painfully reminiscent of the sleep deprivation era we endured forever and a day.

With any luck, the new antibiotic will do the trick—minus the hives. Time will tell.

“Can I take a look at your belly? Yes, I know, I know, I’ve looked at it 427 times today, but I like it. It’s a nice belly and I am especially fond of the ‘innie’ you’re sporting there. No, really—I just need to see your belly. I won’t tickle you. I promise. Just humor me please, Hon.”

Of course, I am now ridiculously suspect of each and every itch, bump or red mark that appears on her skin. I’ve even tiptoed into her room at 3 a.m. with flashlight in hand to examine that belly—yet again. My husband thinks I’ve become obsessed. I simply continue to advise him that he should worry about the poor, defenseless ducks—not my middle-of-the-night traipsings.

Quite frankly, I’m sick to death of administering medicine too. I’ve been driven nearly berserk trying to keep track of who gets what, when—and my kitchen counter is starting to resemble a pharmacy. We’ve got gooey grape stuff, bubblegum-flavored chewables, terrific tasting cherry liquid, a nasal spray and eye drops that promise to end that oh-so-wonderful eyelash super-gluing phenomenon nearly instantaneously. Good thing. I’ve grown to loathe the unsticking process each morning.

Hello, Misery…your company is most definitely here.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (answering the door).