Tag Archives: humor

Dances with Carts

www.melindawentzel.comShopping carts are the bane of my existence. It seems I have an uncanny knack for choosing ones that are both germ-ridden and hideously deficient in some unforeseen manner (i.e. equipped with a smarmy handle or a pathetic set of wheels that lurch and rattle—seemingly driven to move me in any direction but straight).

For whatever reason, I initially dismiss the many and varied imperfections, foolishly thinking that they won’t be terribly bothersome in the end. Moreover, the truly vexing nature of most of the rogues I choose doesn’t become readily apparent until I’ve already journeyed halfway through the produce aisle, mindlessly fingering the fruit and considering whether we need more carrots or romaine. By then I’m committed to the match made in hell, at least until I manage to shove the aforementioned misfit-of-a-cart through the checkout line or muscle it to my car where I can finally ditch it for a better life.

To add insult to injury, I often have to endure such hardships with my brood in tow—the heathens who strive to make each and every shopping excursion more memorable. And they do—whining incessantly about this or that item (the one that the mean and horrible tyrant won’t let them have), wrestling over the matter of who gets to man the cart first, showering me with pleas for sugary cereals and those gooey snack-a-ma-call-its that ought to be removed from the planet altogether.

Apparently it is not enough to be blessed with a wayward cart.

And once I make that regrettable and irrevocable decision to allow one of my miscreants to navigate the treacherous trail ahead, my fate is sealed. Someone’s ankles will indeed pay the price. Likely, mine. Despite the innumerable lectures I’ve delivered, the live demonstrations I’ve provided and the vat of instructional guidance I’ve offered on the subject, my two charges, though well intended, are physically incapable of maneuvering from Point A to Point B without smashing into someone or something. Granted, the gunked-up wheels do little to further their cause.

Not surprisingly, at some point during each supermarket tour of duty my patience wanes with the pushing-of-the-cart ludicrousness, climaxing shamefully somewhere between the toothpaste aisle and frozen foods. As I return to the helm, attempting to pilot that which refuses to be piloted, I am met with yet another challenge: that of effectively communicating the notion of walking single file. My futile commands typically go something like this: “Okay, someone is coming toward us now. Let’s walk single file.”

“Hellooooooo… the aisle isn’t WIDE enough for the three of us AND another cart to pass. Is any of that registering with you two?!”

Of course, neither child of mine responds, so engrossed are they with hanging on the sides of my cart and eyeing the shelves for more of that which is forbidden. I must then stop the cart and clumsily move them—as if they were a couple of small boulders, smiling apologetically to the patron now upon us. Aisle after aisle, I repeat this cart dance—this utter lunacy—both stunned and amazed that creatures capable of telling me anything and everything I might want to know about a Euoplocephalus dinosaur cannot grasp the concept of getting somewhere single file.

And let us not forget the times in the past when one or both daughters insisted upon RIDING INSIDE the cart. Naturally, there were people who found this slightly disturbing—especially when they detected a hint of movement somewhere beneath the rubble.

“Do you know there are children inside your cart?” they asked, alarmed by the possibility that I could have, in fact, been so clueless as to not notice a couple of stowaways.

“Yes. They’re with me, otherwise known as Dances with Carts.”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (forever dodging those ankle-biting menaces in the grocery store).

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Say Yes to the Dress. Maybe.

www.melindawentzel.com

I have not-so-fond memories of my high school prom, most of which stem from having worn a dress that felt as if it were lined with burlap. It was a white, floor-length eyelet gown, cinched unmercifully at the waist, making the thought of dancing almost unbearable. Never mind walking, talking and breathing. However, not going to the dance was out of the question. I went because all my friends would be there. I went because the hype leading up to the event was intoxicating. I went because prom night was a rite of passage—apparently, so was wearing obscenely uncomfortable shoes and stuffing myself in a dress that was two sizes too small.

Cutoffs and Converse sneakers were more my speed. If only I could have convinced the Prom Committee to allow everyone to dress as if they were going to a backyard barbecue, not a stodgy affair where herds of adolescents would spend much of the evening shuffling around in stiff formalwear, feeling both awkward and insecure. Or maybe that was just me.

The only thing less enjoyable than the prom itself was the gown-shopping marathon my mom and I endured beforehand, my angst superseded only by my negativity. I remember thinking I would never find the perfect dress, because it didn’t exist. Designers, it seemed, didn’t have flat-chested prom-goers in mind when they created styles for the masses. Instead, the racks were spilling over with plunging necklines and slinky, strapless numbers I couldn’t wear on a bet—not without hours of alterations and/or divine intervention. Lo and behold, we stumbled upon a gown that would work. Besides, I reasoned, I only had to endure it for a few hours. Then I could ditch it for jeans and a t-shirt—my garb of choice. Not surprisingly, that’s exactly what I did.

So when my youngest daughter announced that she would need a prom dress this year I was speechless, my mind swimming with enough pessimism for six people. But, I reminded myself, she is a different kind of creature—a fun-loving free spirit, one who thrives on adventure and feels comfortable in her own skin, worlds away from me. That much I know.

That said, virtually everything about our shopping excursion was unlike my own of decades ago. For starters, we found heels long before we looked for a gown and she systematically broke them in over a period of weeks. On the day we finally set out to find a dress, my daughter brought the aforementioned shoes along so she could put them on to see how they looked with each gown she tried. Brilliant.

We then proceeded to haul massive amounts of silky, sequined whateverness into the dressing room, banking on the premise that more was better. Itchy tags and tangled hangers be damned. Despite the fact that we both fell in love with the very first gown (in which she looked stunning), she soldiered on—just in case she would discover something even more irresistible. There were black ones and red ones. Dresses without straps. Dresses without backs. Each one distinctively elegant. Each one with its own special charm, making the decision-making process fairly impossible.

After what seemed like forever, we were able to narrow it down to two favorites. And when I say “we” I mean my daughter and myself, an exceedingly helpful sales woman, a handful of patrons who happened to be in the vicinity and hordes of my daughter’s friends who offered instantaneous feedback via social media. Who knew that shopping for a prom dress would necessitate input from one’s Snapchat tribe, which apparently was present in the dressing room? I kid you not.

Needless to say, it’s a different world than it was some 30 odd years ago. Stranger still, we actually had fun searching for the perfect dress—so much fun, that we bought BOTH of her favorites. And because the gods were smiling, they were remarkably affordable, surprisingly comfortable and oh-so-beautiful.

Already it’s looking as if she won’t need decades of prom-related therapy.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, gearing up for Prom Night. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2016 Melinda L. Wentzel 

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Mommie Dearest

www.melindawentzel.comAlways and forever, I am blown away by the seemingly trivial things my kids remember about their lives. The stuff that apparently pools and coagulates in the corners of their minds, having made some sort of lasting impression upon them for whatever reason—good or bad.

“…like the time I was sick and stayed home from school and you hurt your knee chasing Jack (aka: the dang dog) around and around the living room. Remember, Mom?! He had CAT POOP in his mouth and he wouldn’t let you take it! We laughed and laughed so hard!”

“…like the time I ran really fast down our front hill, tripped over the curb and got pebbles stuck in my hand. Remember, Mom?!” (Read: the time I wanted to hurl because of the sickening thud your body made when it hit the pavement, never mind the torrent of queasiness that washed over me when I realized those were ROCKS embedded in your hand!)

“…and how ‘bout the time Daddy tried to drown me in the shower at the Adirondacks?” (i.e. a date which will live in infamy during which he slathered said child’s filthy face with soap, mistakenly assuming she’d have enough SENSE to rinse it off, as opposed to inhaling voluminous quantities of water).

What’s more, I am completely fogged by the way my charges can recite verbatim the vat of horribleness I’ve delivered on more than one occasion (most of which have involved orange juice spillages and missed school buses). More specifically, the shameful string of words that pour unremittingly from my stupid mouth despite KNOWING how infinitely wrong and hurtful they are (i.e. the parenting tirades from hell during which the wheels fly off and Mommie Dearest rears her ugly head).

Likewise, I am baffled by the intimacy my brood shares with their beloved rocks—oh, my hell, the rocks! The ones that adorn their dressers and windowsills. The ones that spill from my Jeep’s nooks and crannies. The ones now housed in my garage (forever and ever, amen). The ones for which a special affinity has grown to a frightening degree. That said, my heathens know from whence each stone came and, perhaps, more disturbingly, why each particular nugget of earthy wonderfulness was harvested and hauled home in the first place, “…because my friend gave it to me and said I should keep it forever,” “…because it spoke to me and I just had to add it to my collection. Each rock is a memory, you know. Why do you always want to take my memories away, Mommy?”

As if that blurbage wasn’t enough to ensure that I will, in fact, die a slow, horrible guilt-induced death, I recently learned of another cardinal sin for which I will pay dearly.

Child: “I ate a napkin once, Mommy.”

Me: “You ate a what?! A NAPKIN?!”

Child: “Yep. A napkin. I sort of nibbled and nibbled it till it was gone.” (Touches fingertips to lips, pretending to gently gnaw imaginary napkin so that I might better understand).

Me: “You ATE AN ENTIRE NAPKIN?! When, where and why on earth would you do such a crazy thing?! People don’t eat napkins (for Crissakes)!” (Hands on hips, appalled by the notion).

Child: “Well I did. Back in kindergarten. At snack time. Besides, my friend ate a tag right off her shirt one time ‘cause it was bothering her. I saw her do it. People DO eat paper-ish stuff sometimes, Mom.”

Me: DEAD SILENCE coupled with a look that likely suggested I had gone off the deep end (shock does this to people I’m told).

Child: CONTINUES WATCHING SPONGE BOB, entirely engrossed in said ocean-inspired idiocy, unaffected by my horrified expression.

Me: “But WHY?! What possessed you to do such a thing?!” (Thinking, of course, this HAD to have been the result of some kind of twisted dare that five-year-olds routinely engage in).

Child: “I was hungry,” she said plainly.

Me: “You were hungry?!” (Clutches heart, gasps).

Child: “Yep. You didn’t pack enough Goldfish in my snack and I was still hungry; so I ate my napkin,” she stated simply, as if telling me I had forgotten to fill her squirt gun, so she commissioned some other schmuck to do it.

At this, of course, I cringed—deeply ashamed of the atrocity I had unknowingly committed, wanting ever so desperately to crawl beneath a rock and die…a slow, horrible guilt-induced sort of death. One entirely befitting of Mommie Dearest (i.e. she-who-would-deny-her-child-adequate-Goldfishy-sustenance).

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with an abundance of tasty napkins and an unbearable burden of guilt). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Floored

img_1999Against all logic and understanding, I tolerated the most hideous-looking carpet known to man for what seemed like an eternity. It stretched an expanse measuring more than 600 square feet from living room to dining room—a wall-to-wall nightmare that everyone knew was pink. Not salmon. Coupled with the abundance of brass and ugly-as-sin wallpaper we found throughout the house on move-in day 1997, it was as if the eighties had lifted the roof and vomited every bit of horrible décor that had ever been imagined.

And because the universe hates me, it took more than two decades to convince my husband that it was high time for a change. Never mind my incessant reminders that our kids and pets (and Lord knows how many previous owners’ kids and pets) had stained said carpet and that it would never again return to its pristine state.

Who am I kidding? Even its pristine state looked positively awful. Need I remind you it was pink? At any rate, for 21 years my husband wouldn’t budge on the issue. In his mind, it was impossible for a house to have too much carpeting—even terrible carpeting. He was even known to have loved the carpet that used to exist in our kitchen and master bathroom. Yes, KITCHEN and MASTER BATHROOM. I wish I were kidding. Not surprisingly, with regard to accidents, it brought new meaning to the word repulsive. Need I even mention the stench that lingered, even after dousing it with an arsenal of cleaning solutions?

“For the love of God,” I thought, “who puts carpeting in a kitchen or a bathroom?! It’s wrong on so many levels I can’t even begin to understand what went into such flawed design decisions.” Thankfully, I only had to endure that tragic reality for about 16 years, having replaced it with some beautiful pseudo-tile flooring. It’s a joy to walk on with bare feet and as an added bonus, I no longer freak out when I spill orange juice or drop an egg at my feet. Okay, maybe I freak out a little, but it’s a far cry from what used to happen.

As for our new living room/dining room reality, it is defined by warmth and wonderfulness in the form of seven-inch, oak-like planks that resist both stains and water. And to say that the dark walnut color is gorgeous is an understatement. It perfectly ties our kitchen cabinetry and stone island together with the Brookline Beige paint in our living/dining rooms and I’ve watched enough HGTV to say that it adds to the overall flow of the household. Yes, I used the word “flow” when I attempted to persuade my husband that we needed hardwood flooring, because I’m fancy like that.

Needless to say, I eventually succeeded in convincing him to ditch the aforementioned carpeting (at least on the first floor), but I’m sure it pains him greatly to admit that he actually likes the new hardwood floors. Of course, he refuses to use the word “flow,” but that’s okay.

“So what do you think about the new flooring?” I asked after the job was complete.

“It’s not so bad and I like how the color ties into the wood furniture. Even the area rugs are nice,” he conceded one day not so long ago.

I knew he’d see it my way. He just needed a chance to appreciate my vision. Alright, it’s possible I had no vision. Perhaps I just loathed that carpet with every ounce of my being and sought to replace it with just about anything that was remotely viable.

Even cobblestone had potential in my mind. At least it wouldn’t have been pink.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, enjoying my new hardwood flooring thanks to Ed Gair, the master craftsman who tolerated my neurotic little dog as well as an embarrassment of clutter. Visit me at www.Facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom for before, during and after pictures.

Copyright 2019 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Dumpster Diving

549771_447951745281244_195262543_nMy husband has never heard of Marie Kondo. Nor does he subscribe to her renowned KonMari Method of keeping only the possessions in one’s life that “spark joy.” It’s a wonder I convinced him to park a ginormous dumpster in our driveway for the better part of a month, hoping against hope that we’d somehow find the will to purge our home of the crap we’ve accumulated as a family for over 22 years.

I, for one, found it to be a cathartic experience—especially the part where I got to fling stuff into the air with wild abandon. It’s possible I may have even shouted something in triumph each time I tossed one of my husband’s college textbooks or a tangled mass of badminton netting into the giant metal bin. The only thing more liberating would have been to light it on fire.

But there were times I got a bit misty-eyed when faced with the matter of keeping or chucking an embarrassment of cap guns. They were a hallmark of my childhood after all. Never mind that several were jammed or in another way deemed nonfunctional. Not surprisingly, I had great difficulty parting with my kids’ toy machine guns, too, and felt compelled to squeeze the broken triggers multiple times before hurling them into oblivion.

I’m like a kindergartener, only less disciplined.

Needless to say, my excitement grew as the days passed and the dumpster became filled with more and more junk. There was a glut of the ugly-as-sin carpeting we just tore out of the living room. There were also boxes upon boxes of heavy books and lesson plans, circa 1974, that I hauled down from the attic, risking life and limb on a 17-foot ladder. There was an abundance of college notebooks that were spared from the trash for nearly five decades. For the love of God, who does that? A hoarder, that’s who. There was a gas grill, an office chair, three sets of antiquated golf clubs and a bug collecting kit of undetermined origin. Of course, there were still bugs inside it—dead as ever. Even my dust-covered treadmill found its way there, despite the challenge of dragging it all the way through the house and garage. At least we got some exercise in the process.

Even our neighbors got in on the fun when I gave them the go-ahead to deposit their gargantuan television set inside. I only wish I had witnessed its arrival. Instead I had to hear about several family members pushing and/or “riding” their 72” TV down the street and up our driveway. I can only imagine what it must have been like to then lift the stupid thing into the dumpster. Hopefully, no one got a hernia.

As one might expect, my hoard-happy husband and I had several heated debates while we attempted to clean out our garage—most of which involved dumpster diving (his) and emphatic arguments (mine) over the issue of whether or not something “brought joy” to one’s life.

“What do you mean ‘Does this bring me joy?’” he demanded to know as he held a bucket with no bottom in his hands. “I happen to like this bucket.”

“It has no bottom,” I reminded him.

“I don’t care,” he defended.

In hindsight, maybe I should have requested that a marriage counselor be included with the dumpster rental. Judging by our impassioned exchanges, I’m guessing a lot of couples would be interested in such a convenient arrangement. Better still, a copy of Marie Kondo’s Spark Joy could be presented to help the utterly hopeless.

Although we still have a lot of stuff to purge after filling an entire dumpster to the brim and it took two people with master’s degrees to open it, on the bright side, we found a buyer for my husband’s vintage (old-as-dirt) Schwinn bicycle and classic toy trucks. What’s more, we unearthed some marbles while sorting through a hodgepodge of items.

It’s good to know we still have some.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, anxiously awaiting the arrival of another dumpster for Round II of The Purge. Visit me there at www.Facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2019 Melinda L. Wentzel

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