Tag Archives: humor

February 6, 2012 · 2:07 pm

Captain Underpants

As I type, I’m envisioning the disjointed discussion likely taking place in my brood’s fifth-grade classroom right about now, spawned, of course, by the events surrounding Saturday’s cleaning fest at our home. Like most frenzied attempts to rid my world of filth, this one involved airborne food, uninspired decor and a shameless violation of child labor laws. I’m guessing the conversation unfolded thusly:

Thing One: “My Mom made us dust the whole living room this weekend WITH A PAIR OF MY DAD’S UNDERWEAR and it was entirely horrible.”

Teacher: (rendered speechless, except for the chortles she probably choked back in an effort to appear genuinely empathetic and professional in the midst of unadulterated hilarity)

Thing One: “Yeah, she was running the vacuum like ALL DAY, which she almost NEVER does, because we had to move the couch…because there was a big mustard stain on the carpet she was trying to hide (with said couch) and because my sister and I were standing around doing nothing except eating the old M&Ms we found under the couch, Mom made us pick up Dad’s underwear and dust (likely scarring the aforementioned youth for life).”

Teacher: “Oh. Dusting. With your Dad’s underwear. I see.”

Thing Two: “I spilled the mustard last week. And my beef barbecue sandwich on Saturday morning, when I jumped into Mom’s favorite chair. She went ballistic, like she always does. So we ended up helping her clean, only we didn’t do it right because she found little pieces of my sandwich underneath the cushion and on the carpet EVEN AFTER we scrubbed. Well, actually THE DOG found little pieces of my sandwich and I knew it wasn’t going to be a very good day. So she handed us Dad’s underwear and told us to dust. I thought I was going to hurl.”

Teacher: “Mustard. Beef barbecue. Underwear. Urge to hurl. Uh huh. But the underwear was just a dust cloth, right? One she’s washed a gazillion times?”

Thing One: “That’s what she told us, but I don’t believe it. She was probably SO mad about the carpet and the chair that she wanted to punish us by grossing us out. Well it worked. When I grow up and get my own house, I’m never going to make my kids dust with anyone’s underwear. That’s just plain wrong.”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (amusing teachers everywhere). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

1 Comment

Filed under Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, I Pretty Much Suck at Parenting

Tagged as children, humor, messes, parenting

January 18, 2012 · 7:00 am

2012: The Year of the Dragon

According to the Chinese zodiac, 2012 is the year of the dragon. I know this to be true not only because I googled the bejesus out of it, but because my brood became riddled with delirium upon learning they had received a baby bearded dragon for Christmas. Make that TWO baby bearded dragons, coupled with a profusion of lizard-friendly paraphernalia said beings apparently require to survive. Heaven forbid the celebrated pet in question spend the rest of his days socially isolated, unable to collectively revel in the knowledge that the year ahead promises good things to those who are symbolic of reptilians.

Or something like that.

At any rate, we now own two disturbingly Godzilla-inspired organisms and, as a result, my children are entirely convinced that 2012 will be filled with good fortune—especially as it relates to the aforementioned scaly creatures. Translation: “We hope they have babies, Mom! Lots of them!” I’m not sure I could handle that much good fortune, particularly given the prolific nature of their poo and the nauseating reality of stockpiling live mealworms in my refrigerator and seasoned (read: calcium-dusted) crickets in the den. Gah! This is SO not in the parenting handbook. But I digress.

Against all logic and understanding, the tiny beasts have become a never-ending source of fascination for me. The way they ogle me with their freakishly bulbous eyes, twist their wee necks to an impossible degree and seize their prey in the true spirit of savagery intrigues me no end. Even the way they chew their vegetables is mildly entertaining. That said, I find myself drawn to their fetid tank, patently engrossed as they bask beneath the torrid rays of a pseudo sun—silent and still, much like the rocks and canopy of branches to which they cling almost invisibly; or when they devour legions of hapless victims in a manner that makes me cringe in horror, yet renders me wholly incapable of turning away. Never mind the dreadful sound of their jaws as they crush, chew and swallow without a morsel of mercy or an ounce of regret. Shame on me for being perfectly enthralled by something so inherently gruesome.

At least I’m not alone. Our entire household gathers en masse at the tank in a twisted display of fanaticism—noses to the glass in palpable anticipation, each of us about to be categorically mesmerized by what can only be described as a feeding frenzy. Furthermore, we’re fairly entranced by the hunt itself, duly impressed as our dear lizards scuttle about like spiders, hugging uncertain terrain and cleverly cornering a handful of crickets that, unsurprisingly, max out on the Stupidity Scale. Every. Single. Time. It’s entirely possible we need to develop more empathy for the ill-fated vermin. Then again, maybe the point is moot. (i.e. “It’s sad that the crickets have to die such a horrible, violent death, Mom. But it’s sort of entertaining to watch. Especially when their legs fall off and stuff.”)

Just when I think my husband and I are doing something right with respect to raising compassionate kids, they drop a disturbing little nugget like that on us. Oy.

At any rate, we’re having far more fun with our newish pets than I ever imagined possible. They’ve cheered homework completion on numerous occasions, been privy to godknowshowmany deep, dark secrets and journeyed far and wide to learn about their surroundings (i.e. “This is the television, which you probably won’t care much about…and this is the dog, which you should be profoundly terrified of…”).

Furthermore, they’ve balanced on heads with remarkable aplomb, starred in a multitude of ridiculous Photo Booth dramas (don’t ask) and, of course, perched atop a certain Justin Bieber doll to the delight of many. Looking back, I don’t know how I functioned without having such unadulterated hilarity in my life.

Indeed, 2012 promises good things—amusement involving a special pair of lizards, chief among them.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (when I’m not at Animal Specialties stocking up on crickets and counsel). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

1 Comment

Filed under Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Lizard Lips

Tagged as bearded dragons, children, humor, parenting, pets

January 12, 2012 · 9:40 am

And on the Eighth Day, God Created Tactless Children

“Mom, do you have any clothes that are snug?” one of my brood tossed out as she snacked on a slice of pizza the size of Connecticut.

“Snug?” I asked. Could a wispy second grader fully and completely grasp the meaning of a word like snug–as in, “My pants are so fucking ‘snug,’ I’m going to EXPLODE if I so much as entertain the idea of breathing right now!”?

“Yeah. Like stuff that fits you too tight.”

“Yes, Hon. Virtually everything I own.”

“No, that’s not right, Mom. What you’re wearing right now isn’t too tight,” she corrected.

“Okay.” That’s because I’m so pathetic I happen to be wearing your father’s khakis with the waistband rolled over so they won’t fall to my knees in the grocery store–oh, and an enormous t-shirt so no one actually sees the hideous waistband-rollover-dealie. “ALMOST everything.”

“Like your wedding dress?” she offered casually (How could a puny and oh-so-unworldly kid zero in on THE most significant piece of garmentage I own as it relates directly to my hopeless and eternal struggle with weight since the advent of motherhood?! Needless to say, I was stunned and amazed to learn that she possessed such painfully accurate knowledge).

“Yes, like my wedding dress,” I answered through clenched teeth as I peeled the umpteenth carrot at the sink, wondering where this exercise in humiliation could possibly be headed.

“Can we play dress-up with it then?” she asked offhandedly.

“NO. You can’t play dress-up with my wedding dress! That’s…that’s…just not…it’s just not…appropriate,” I stammered and fished for the proper wordage to protect and defend what was rightfully mine–as if I might need it for a third trip down the aisle at some point in the future. Besides, I didn’t want dribbles of pizza to sully its pristine surface. Or the purplish hue of lip gloss they were sure to smear on it (“…because lipstick makes us more be-U-tiful, Mommy, so we can get married”). My dress was perfectly perfect shrouded in plastic, hanging for all eternity behind the rest of my wardrobe-that-was-too-stinking-small-for-me.

For the record: I made two trips down the aisle.

But in two completely different dresses. In two completely different cities. In two completely different decades.

And, of course, I exchanged I-Do’s with two completely different men.

That said, wearing the same dress twice would have been tacky. And no, I couldn’t have poured myself into the first dress for the second wedding anyway. Not on a bet.

____________________________________________________________

Just then, her partner in crime (i.e. the equally wispy twin sister) joined us in the kitchen to listen in.

“Just where did all this snug malarkey come from anyway?” I had to inquire. Did my ass really look that big? SO big that my soon-to-be-eight-year-old daughters felt compelled to address the issue face-to-face?!

“We saw an ad on TV,” Wispy Girl One answered.

“Yeah. It was about how you could fit into all your old clothes again,” Wispy Girl Two added.

“Oh really,” I said, cynicism oozing from my pores.

“Yeah. It only takes like a day, Mom, and then the man said you could fit into your old clothes. Isn’t that cool?!” Wispy Girl Two further explained.

“Very cool, Hon. Very cool. Although I doubt it would work in just one day.”

“Yeah. It might take you a week because you really don’t get how it works, do you Mom?”

Apparently not.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (in my husband’s khakis…but it’s not what you think). Oh, and you can buy Jen Lancaster’s book here, Such a Pretty Fat and Kim Brittingham’s literary gem, Read My Hips here. Perhaps I ought to zip to the bookstore myself with my tactless children in tow–who will undoubtedly mention to the nice saleslady, “Mommy’s clothes are a bit snug, you know. But she’s working on it.”

1 Comment

Filed under Kid-Speak, Ode to Embarrassment

Tagged as children, humor, Jen Lancaster, Kim Brittingham, parenting, Read my Hips, Such a Pretty Fat, weight issues

January 7, 2012 · 11:13 am

The Twelfth of Never

My refrigerator is the center of my universe, the heart and soul of my being and the hub of all that defines my world. Not because of the mince pie, Jack cheese and leftovers contained within. But because of the Almighty Calendar that hangs on its shiny surface—eye-level, next to the school lunch menu, surrounded by tiny scraps of paper upon which I scrawled phone numbers I need to know but will never remember. And like a lot of well-worn items in my household, it looks as though it belongs there—wedged comfortably between favorite photos, prized artwork and those all-important memos and appointment cards without which I would surely shrivel up and die.

Each perfect square on that grand and glorious grid of events represents a chunk of precious time. And it MUST have something scribbled within it. Someone’s birthday. A holiday mealtime. A veterinary appointment. A vacation destination. A reminder to return the kids’ library books. Something. Anything. Except nothingness—which would imply a sort of nothingness about me, I suppose; or perhaps that downtime actually exists in my harried world.

What a ludicrous notion.

There are swimming lessons, birthday parties and play rehearsals to attend. Soccer games, haircuts and doctors’ visits galore. Empty blocks simply do not reflect the reality that is mine. Besides, the voids make me feel guilty—as if I have nothing better to do than sit around and watch Play-Doh crumble and dry while the kids are at school. Calendars crammed to capacity with details of this or that planned affair give me a real sense of purpose, of direction, of connectedness with the outside world—linking me to all the goings-on I have chosen to include (willingly or not). And they provide a healthy dose of structure and predictability, too—both of which are sorely lacking here. In sum, calendars bring a smattering of order to my otherwise disordered world. I shudder to think where I’d be without mine.

That said, I love calendars, despite my personal limitations in dealing with them. I especially enjoy receiving a new one for Christmas and spending a lazy afternoon in January slathering its pristine little blocks with all sorts of important dates and times to remember. Every syllable precisely placed. I’m quite certain I fool a myriad of individuals into believing that I’m impeccably organized. Even I believe it for a time.

But by February the frenzied pace of the world returns and information starts spilling from those neat and tidy little squares into the narrow margins. Stuff gets scribbled out or transferred to other squares and big, ugly arrows are drawn across what was once an unsullied masterpiece of time management—which is a lot like life, I suppose.

It’s subject to change.

Remarkably, most of us manage to muddle through the madness with a few reroutings and derailments here and there, which builds character, I’m told. Maybe that’s what makes the month-by-month journey worth journeying—even if it’s just to the fridge.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

P.S. Now would be the PERFECT TIME to order one of those bad ass calendars by The Bloggess (aka Jenny Lawson). Click here and prepare to cackle until you cannot breathe or until you soil yourself. Possibly both. http://www.zazzle.com/bloggess_2012_calendar-158892766191191563

2 Comments

Filed under Daily Chaos, Refrigerator Art, Welcome to My Disordered World

Tagged as 2012, calendars, family, humor, New Year, organization, parenting, The Bloggess

January 4, 2012 · 7:00 am

A Kinder, Gentler Sort of Holiday Madness

It’s the eleventh day of Christmas and finally it’s safe to venture beyond one’s home out into the Land of Wares. At least it would seem so. The tired, the poor and the frenzied masses have all gone home, lugging obscene quantities of discounted schlock from near and far. No longer are the aisles choked with throngs of ill-tempered people—addled by the irksome constancy of holiday music, less-than-functional shopping carts and the vexing nature of can-I-really-afford-that-which-promises-to-wow-my-child-as-much-or-more-than-a-pony. Furthermore, hideously long lines, impossible-to-find merchandise, and the occasional slug-inspired sales clerks no longer fuel my nightmares. Nor does the siren song of Black Friday, Super Saturday and Mega Monday wail in my ear. Even the highways and byways seem more manageable in the wake of this oh-so-wonderful Yuletide. Parking lots, too.

Quite frankly, I was teetering on the edge of insanity just days before Christmas, my head reeling with sales jingles and an acute awareness of my fiscal limitations. Plus, I was fumbling around with way too many crumpled scraps of paper filled to capacity with wishes that had been hurriedly scrawled, scratched out, and then revised in the margin or penciled in literally atop an existing entry, making the resultant tome very nearly indecipherable. Couple that with the insurmountable task of calculating sale prices, on top of sale prices, less the percentage of savings guaranteed with my shamelessly disordered wad of coupons, as well as remembering a host of preferred shapes, sizes, colors and molecular structures of the aforementioned wish list items and it’s completely reasonable to expect ensuing madness.

God forbid someone’s pajama pants might feature the wrong monkeys (heretofore known as “monkey pants”).

Needless to say, I fell victim to the surge of gotta-have-it-or-I-will-surely-wither-and-die mentality, besieged by the almighty tide of consumerism and swallowed whole by its frenetic and unrelenting pace. Translation: I joined the masses of those who wandered aimlessly in both stores and tangled parking lots, mumbling great strings of incoherence about the state of my cussed list, seized by a quiet panic over frivolities such as Justin Bieber’s hair style (who knew there was more than one?!), the untold variety of Harry Potter whateverness and whether or not Stubby and The Fat One (the bearded dragons my charges so desperately wanted for Christmas) had already been sold to the highest bidder—in which case, I might as well have lit myself on fire to avoid a far more horrible fate.

That said, I’m not especially proud of the fact that I spent a veritable eternity facing a wall of Littlest Pet Shop creatures and a bank of creepy cyber bugs, paralyzed with indecision over toys that would be discarded in roughly 27 seconds. The bendable sock monkeys would rule the day anyway, as would the offensively loud pair of elephant banks, the freakishly large rubber shark, the aforementioned monkey pants and the glut of fuzzy, green socks a certain someone used a total of ten adjectives to effectively describe in her “Dear Santa” letter. Likewise, I am equally ashamed to admit having been so completely obsessed with finding the perfect gift (and fit) for my husband that I tried on an embarrassment of winter coats, and in so doing, became literally entombed within one in a remote corner of a department store that should probably ban me.

I wish I were kidding.

Read: Just after I had finished zipping it past my nose, snapping all the snaps and appraising its exceptional warmth and coziness, the teeth of the external zipper suddenly gave way at its base, causing a small wave of panic to wash over me. All I could readily focus on, as I groped around for the stupid zipper and FLOUNDERED INSIDE SAID TORRID MICROCOSM OF DOOM was the newspaper headline that would surely read: Woman Trapped Inside Giant Parka. Rescued Three Days Later by Kohl’s Employees. Driven Certifiably Insane by Incessant Loop of Holiday Music and Sauna-like Temperatures.

Thankfully, I was spared that particular brand of humiliation and escaped from the jacket in question without incident. The zipper miraculously righted itself, I chose a perfectly wonderful coat from the legions I had sampled and went home a happy woman—almost as happy as I am now that the madness is over and normalcy has returned to the land.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (probably not shopping). Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com and www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.