Category: It’s not the years, HONEY – it’s the mileage!

I expect they’ll be fighting over who gets to change “my” diaper, too!

making parenting look like a piece of cake since, never mind when!

A long time ago (i.e. about two kids in diapers, one in pull-ups and one losing her first tooth, ago) and way before I worked up enough nerve to go ahead and push “publish” on this old blog, a bunch of my mom friends and I would make a little extra diaper money by working with local marketing research companies and participate in consumer focus groups.

We were sort of like bloggers, but without blogs. Yeah. That’s right. Bloggers without blogs. You heard it here, first.

Aaaaanyway, because we had a houseful of kids under the age of I don’t remember anymore, we were real popular with the toy companies. And the toy companies were real popular with our houseful of kids, too.

Flash-forward I don’t remember how many years: the phone rings and all four of my now teens and adult children will NOT do anything about it, until a robotic voice tells them to.

Call from…Focus…R…Us…

These guys haven’t called us since forever ago, so I holler to let the machine get it which, if you have teenagers in the house then you probably already know, is totally unnecessary.

Call from…Focus…R…Us…

Parenting pro-tip: kids under the age of 10 will usually put themselves in charge of answering the phone, with or without your permission.

Beeeeeeeep…click.

They didn’t leave a message, so now my teen and adult children are all like, who the heck is Focus-R-Us? Halfway into my explanation, they lost interest. Until.

“Remember the time when Papa came over to babysit and didn’t know how to change Hopey’s diaper?“

True story. My mom and dad used cloth diapers. My mom was in charge of changing the babies. My dad would take the diapers down to the laundromat and, considering I also have a twin brother, that’s a lot of dirty diapers. Can you blame him?

“Seriously, Papa didn’t know how to change a diaper?”

Cloth diapers, yes. These new-fangled disposable diapers, no. But, considering our youngest daughter waited until I left the house to surprise her Papa with a big load of stinky, he was willing to try.

Only, my 2 year-old son REFUSED to show him where the disposable diapers were kept.

“Yep, you made Papa look for them!”

A few hours later, I came home from Focus-R-Us with my two oldest (they were asked to give their opinions on the latest Christmas line, and oh boy did they, but that’s another blog post, you’re welcome!) to find my son pouting in the corner (come to find out later that he put himself there, not my dad) and my father was very, very proud of himself for having changed his very first diaper, EVER!

So, I then pulled my son aside, knelt down next to him and whispered into his ear.

“Why wouldn’t you show your Papa where the diapers were?”

My blonde-haired, blue-eyed, precious little baby boy pulled the pacifier from his mouth, put his hands on his hips AND explained EXACTLY why.

“Beeeeeee-caws, dat’s Mommy’s job!”

Aaaaaand oh how my now teenage son and I laughed…and laughed…his sisters, though…ummmmm…not so much.

“In case you’re wondering, it isn’t!”

Although, my now 13 year-old is taking great delight in claiming, “Papa changed my poopy diaper, NOT yours!!!” from now on. You’re welcome, Hope.

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July 2, 2014

Have you seen this scary man/woman?

this full house, forever ago

It’s been 2 years since we’ve had kids roaming the halls of the elementary school; wondering how they can get out of going to gym class (mostly the girls) or losing track of time on their way back from the bathroom (probably my son) and just where in the heck DID they put down their lunch bags (ALL of them) or coats (my son, again) seriously?!?

Hint: claim cramps, it’s on the kitchen table, and there’s a bit of comfort that goes along with my believing there are warm and toasty kids out there, who are probably still wearing my son’s coats.

Aaaaanyway, although my husband and I do NOT miss the daily grind of school drop-offs and pick-ups, there’s a calm sort of “Yeah, we’ve got teens and haven’t burned-out all of our gray cells, YET” sort of feeling that goes along with raising older kids.

Somethings I do miss:

Sitting outside at the school playground
For at least a few minutes, every day
Waiting for the kids to burn off some steam
While I go through their backpacks
Finding little drawings of the most random stuff imaginable
Seriously, I don’t EVER remember inviting a five-armed alien, with big orange eyes and three heads, to dinner
Although, it was probably meant to be a picture of me
My kids draw good

Then there would be this guy. His pants were always too short, his shoes sometimes didn’t match and he always seemed to be arguing with someone, who wasn’t actually really there, and it used to scare the kids to hear him holler at…well…no one.

Quite frankly, me too.

Not because I was afraid he was going to hurt us (okay, with four kids hanging onto every one of my body parts within their reach, maybe a little), but because he always seemed to be so…you know…angry.

Years passed, our kids started taking the bus to their schools, but we still sometimes saw “the scary man” walk by the front of our house — same too short pants and mismatched shoes.

Fast forward to this morning: we ran out of milk. Okay, so in the large scope of things, not a really big deal. Unless, you’ve only had one cup of coffee and cannot…and I mean NOT…function properly without at least one more cup of coffee, like me.

I asked my oldest daughter if she’d mind driving down to the corner to grab a gallon, but she was running late for work….GASP!!!!….not so much because she was running late for work (honestly, I’d be checking for pods in the crawl space, if she wasn’t), but it meant that I would have to go down to the corner and get my own danged milk….GASP!!!!

Long story, short: my car isn’t feeling very well, at the moment (because the washing machine is broken and the car has sympathy pains, OF COURSE!) so I decided to walk and, as it often times happens when I am alone, I started talking to myself:

A friggin’ second cup of coffee
Is all I want, dammit
Stupid car
Dumbass washing machine
Daaaaang, but it’s too hot for this sweatshirt
Gah, BOOB SWEAT!!!!
Probably be ALL out of milk, anyways
I meant the store, NOT my boobs
Because those puppies have been empty FOR YEARS!!!
SNORT
That’s what SHE said

Aaaaaand, then it hit me, like a dried-up boob upside the head: all those poor people driving by, as I’m literally arguing with myself, I must look like a fright. Then I glanced down at my feet.

enough said

You know, I haven’t seen the scary man in a while. Gosh, but I hope he’s okay.

June 20, 2014

Two Shots of Happy, One Shot of Sad

I am a big fan of Spotify and love listening to all sorts of music, especially at different times during the day, for example:

Mornings: are for acoustic new-age-totally-zen-like-chill-the-frig-out-already-type of channels while working, but not before carefully screening out play lists featuring waterfalls or rain, because overactive bladder…YO!!!

Afternoons: are made for badass-don't-EVEN-think-about-messing-with-me-womenz like P!nk and Halestorm's Lzzy Hyde (a.k.a. my husband's second and third wives and I'm totally okay wit-it!) while driving and/or running a bazillion errands, especially during the summer. I live Jersey, enough said.

Evenings: however, are perfect for storytelling sexy-sexy-type crooners like Frank Sinatra, Harry Conick Jr. and Michael Bublé (although, in our house we call him Michael Bubble) while I'm making dinner or feeling…you know…a little sexy-sexy, my ownself.

Note to my teens: you guys are old enough to know how it works, and that it STILL works (mostly, sort of), so get over it, already!

An online friend of mine recently introduced me to Martini in the Morning, a play list that is currently running 24-7 on my Spotify account, because it is far enough away from mainstream music (a.k.a. kryptonite, for teens), that even my kids aren't making fun of me…as much…okay, for about 5 minutes…it's kinda, sorta cool.

Until! This song: Two Shots of Happy, One Shot of Sad started to play and I went to Google it (it's written by U2: Bono and The Edge, KEWL!) and also to learn a little more about the artist who was singing all sexy-sexy like, Matt Dusk.

Aaaaaaaaand, oh. Em. Gee. Now I can't seem to get ANY work done…DAMMIT…but that doesn't mean I'm going to NOT get ANY work done…alone…soooooooo, here ya' go:

You're welcome!!! Gee, I wonder what Garth (not his real name) is doing, right now?!?

June 3, 2014

What Have You Broke(n) For Me, Lately?

If I had to choose one super power, something that I’m really, really good at — better at than the average mom, even — most people who know me (both virtually and IRL) would probably agree: I break things, a lot.

In fact, I even blogged about my being a total KLUTZ back in 2008 for a Thursday Thirteen meme. Remember those? No? Well go and Google it, then. G’head, I’ll wait.

[cracks knuckles, stretches and…GAH!!!!…Charlie horse…CHAR…LEE…FRIGGIN’…HORSE!!!]

Today, however, I was in rare form, even for me:

Post by Liz Katkics Thompson.

My youngest daughter heard me hollering from the shower (because, she’s almost 13 and is well aware of the fact that her mama is a KLUTZ!) and, after finding out that I did NOT in fact slip in the shower (I think she secretly wants to be able to dial 911, just once, on purpose or something), her driver-personality kicked in.

Hope: You can use our shower. It’s clean! In the meantime, I’m going to text Dad and ask him to stop at the store to pick up a new shower head on his way from work.

Me: NO!!!!!

Hope: Why?!?

Me: Because he’s going to demand an explanation.

Hope: Ummm, actually, he probably won’t.

I’d still be frowning, if the kid weren’t correct in her assumption: if it’s broken, then mom most probably broke it, too.

Aaaaaanyway, the broken shower head got me thinking: wouldn’t it be fun to revisit the 13 Things I haven’t managed to kill or break yet from 6 years ago, you know, to see how many are broken or not?!? She asked, rhetorically:

1. The blow dryer I bought at CVS back in I don’t remember when: DEAD. Also, the wallpaper? GONE!!! Because, honestly, who wallpapers a bathroom?!?

2. My husband’s grandmother’s telephone table: in need of a good oiling (aren’t we all?), but not broken. The African violet, however, GOOD AND DEAD.

3. My Dyson vacuum cleaner: RECENTLY DECEASED; we bought another one, but an older model; because college tuitions…YO!!!

4. My husband’s grandmother’s Christmas cactus: my son was sick with mono last year, got up too fast to answer the front door, passed out and knocked it over (I can’t find that blog post, but probably Facebooked it) and my husband’s grandmother is probably taking bets on what I’ll be breaking, next. 2-1 it will be this plant (see #5, below).

However, I managed to save three stalks, but they too are most definitely VERY NEARLY DEAD.

5. The refrigerator: This sucker lasted more than 15 years…which is like forever in appliance years…and I think that is my finger, but can’t be sure, sooooo moving on…

6. Creeping Charlie: DEAD. Good thing too, I never really liked it all that much and it was sort of creeping me out, hanging out in the corner like that, anyways.

7. China cabinet filled with pretties from Hungary: Still here, unbroken (knocking on wood until knuckles bleed) I’m still not allowed to touch it, enough said.

8. Matching china cabinet filled with even more pretties: see number 7, above.

9. Sir Fig Newton: DEAD! However, I can’t take the blame for this one — the cat insisted on peeing in its pot and it drowned, I mean the fig tree not the cat — stupid cat!

10. The Cookie Jar: It was a present given to us on our wedding day and…although you probably already figured it out…I am NOT allowed to touch it, either.

11. My sneakers: Mysteriously disappeared after the original post published back in 2008, I think the dog may have ate them.

12. Doofus-dawg: He is a canine version of my dorkish self, so we’ve both grown MUCH more patient with each other, enough said.

13. These are My geraniums: ALIVE!!! All of these pots are from cuttings off of a plant I received after our oldest was born, nearly 21 years ago. There’s an interesting story behind these geraniums.

Geraniums were my grandmother’s favorite flower and she kept pots on her balcony. My father escaped from Hungary when he was 18 (he told his mother that he was going out to get bread) and they never saw each other, again — my grandmother died the year after we were born.

Her death nearly destroyed my grandfather (Dad, too) and, in turn, he neglected the geraniums, but never had the heart to throw them out.

My brother and I were two years-old when my parents were granted amnesty and were finally allowed to go back. When my grandfather received the telegram, the geraniums started to bloom.

I believe that she is the reason why mine look so beautiful, today.

Because tomorrow is my 50th birthday (but I still look good, DAMMIT!) and Nagy Mama knows, that I know, a little divine intervention goes a looooooooooong way, especially for dorks like me.

Soooooo, in celebration of my making it to half a century (seriously, that’s a long a friggin’ time in KLUTZ years!), re-read the title of this blog post, but sing it out loud, while I dance like this:

This is where all you youngster/hipster-types are all like…but WE want to wear over-sized men’s clothes and gold-plated triangular earrings, TOOOOOOO…that’s right, be jealous.

**Aaaaand, this is where I would totally flip my hair and pivot from one hip to the other, if I had hair and my hips weren’t permanently locked in the downward dog position, dammit**

Stupid menopausal hair, dumbass locked up hips.

May 27, 2014

3 weeks; 21 days; 504 hours; 30,240 minutes and a pair of fake eyelashes.

so, this happened. the girl formerly known as thing two (when i started blogging 11 years ago) looking all growed-up and beautiful for her senior prom.

To everyone else, it’s just a very lovely capture of another milestone reached in the life of a teen. To me? It is one more bittersweet reminder of just how quickly the years have gone by or how they’re sort of speeding up and beginning to make me feel a little like throwing up, even.

Long story, short: I’ve been working a lot of hours, lately. Like, if I’m not sleeping…then I’m pretty much working…and the kids have been awesome about helping out…I mean…as much as can be expected, their being kids and all.

Which means there’s a lot of debating on whose turn it is to: change the dishwasher, feed the animals, switch the laundry, walk the dog, take out the garbage, mow the lawn, and forget to take something out of the freezer for dinner.

Okay, that last one was probably me, but one of the really GREAT things about raising teens is when THEY start remembering things for you.

“I’m taking Heather to get shoes for the prom, after I pick her up from work.”

Then they get old enough to drive and can take their siblings to work and stuff — that’s just all sorts of awesome, right there.

“Don’t forget, I get out at 12:55 today, so we could get my hair and makeup done!”

Even longer story, short: seniors are let out early on prom day, which is also all sorts of awesome, except the buses still run on a regular schedule, so I glanced down at the timestamp on the spreadsheet I happened to be working on and…DAMMIT…but spreadsheets can be evil little time suckers.

“I’m leaving now!”

My oldest daughter was working (because, you know, eventually I’m going to need to allow her to have a life, too) so I was left in charge of picking up my middle girl.

“Mom, you’ll never make it.”

Here’s the thing. My middle girl does not drive. The vocational school she attends is 30 miles away and it does not have a driver’s ed class, but since she was hoping to go to a city college, she was perfectly okay with putting off getting her driver’s license for a while.

“We’ll get there in time, don’t worry.”

20 minutes later (give or take a minute, or another 20) I pulled up to the school, she got into the car and then 3 weeks worth of stress (both hers and mine) boiled over, words were exchanged and, well, it wasn’t pretty.

30 minutes later, we walked into the hair salon all puffy-eyed and emotionally spent.

To her, the last 3 weeks, of what should have been an exciting time of announcing college decisions and preparing for her senior prom, have become nothing more than 21 days, 504 hours, and 30,240 minutes of disappointment.

To me? It was yet another reminder of just how far I have come to feeling like an absolute failure at all the things…especially, not knowing how to make my kids happy…anymore.

“Mom, she forgot her eyelashes.”

I watched my daughter’s eyes move from her reflection in the mirror to mine, as our hairdresser asked the make-up girl to take me to the beauty supply store, a few doors down.

My hairdresser is also a very good friend of mine and she has a teen, enough said.

“I picked these, they sort of flare out like wings, I thought these would look cool.”

My daughter nodded her head.

“Yeah, I like those.”

We both stared at the fake eyelashes for a few more seconds, before our eyes met and we smiled at each other, at the same time…even.

My oldest daughter got there soon after that and we both sat there together for the next 90 minutes, while folks continued to fuss over her sister, both of us content with watching her enjoy each and every minute of it.

And then it hit me, as these sort of parenting-type things often do, like a brick upside the forehead.

“Why don’t you go home with your sister, while I settle up the bill.”

Parenting teens is sort of like being strapped into a roller coaster…all day…every day…and whose success SHOULD be measured simply by our ability to walk away without a) throwing up and with b) all your body parts still attached.

“Nah, I’ll just wait and ride home with you…Momma.”

Then again, we could all just throw our hands up in the air and screeeeeeaaaaaaammmmm…allllllllllllllll…the…frig…waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay…dowwwwwwwwwwwn.

Happy prom day, Heather. I love you. I’m glad it turned out to be a good day, after all.

May 11, 2014

And now we’re Doofus-dawg-proofing the couch.

I was pregnant with our oldest when we moved into our house…what we then referred to as our starter home…on Memorial Day weekend…21 years ago. Okay, so we’re really sloooooooooooow starters.

Although my husband and I still dream about not having to share a closet (smaller than some other people’s pantries) or my waking up in the middle of the night and having to go to the bathroom, all…the…way…downstairs…across the kitchen…through the living room…and waaaaay on the other side of the house…[taking a moment to catch my breath…phew…thanks!]…it’s more than what a lot of other people have and, well, we’ve always managed to sort of make stuff work.

It’s also a lot easier now, in the sense that our kids are mostly-grown and have all pretty much child-proofed themselves, by now.

Then our poor old Doofus-dawg goes and hurts himself, by fracturing a bone in his foot which had to be splinted in order for it to heal properly, so the vet sent us home with very strict instructions:

NO JUMPING
NO RUNNING
NO CLIMBING

No problem, I mean, seeing as he spends most of his days dosing on the couch, right?!?

AND ABSOLUTELY NO JUMPING UP ON THE FURNITURE

R’uh-oh. Seriously?!? The definition of a dog’s life includes jumping on the furniture — especially, when you’re NOT looking — and, for as big as he is, our Doofus-dawg is especially proficient in sneaking up right next to you, without you even knowing it, until it’s too late.

yes, we ARE martha stewart’s worst nightmare.

So, once again, we’ve managed to make it work: using laundry baskets to Doofus-proof the furniture.

and this is where we do our best edith and archie bunker, yo!

Aaaaand, although I didn’t think we would have to worry about the recliners (they rock, literally!), Doofus-dawg did in fact try and get up on the recliners, too. The cone of shame is a reminder to quit chewing and it also seems to be working.

Still, night time is proving to be difficult. Doofus is used to sleeping upstairs with us, so my husband has been sleeping downstairs with Doofus (yeah, I know, it’s going to be a looooong 4 weeks), but I didn’t think he’d appreciate my posting a picture of the super-ingenious way he’s managed to keep Doofus off the couch.

Soooo, my oldest daughter and I re-created it for you:

this is me, pretending to be my husband, doofus-proofing the couch.

Aaaaaaaand, this is the part where you begin to feel really, really good about yourself AND pretty gosh-darned happy that you do NOT have to live with me. You’re welcome!

I’m NaBloPoMo-ing it, feel free to check out what I’ve NaBloPoMo-ed, thus far (PHEW!) and let me know how I’m doing (I mean, 30 posts, in 30 days, really?!?) when you have time, of course!

April 7, 2014

Never trust a mother with a camera.

My two oldest girls are 2 years apart, so Holly was still in diapers when Heather was born, because potty training is hard enough, let alone bringing home a brand new baby sister, thankyouverymuch.

They spent the next 3 years together, as each other’s constant playmate, before more babies came along and, well, then it became…EVERYONE IN THE POOL!!!…while other parents looked on (in horror, mostly) wondering what it was like to raise 4 children under the age of 10: it sort of feels as if you are walking around in a drunken stupor…all day…every day.

These two monkeys, however, get the credit for molding me into the mother that their siblings would grow to know, as they each continued to help keep their mother (a.k.a. me) in check.

Even today, although they don’t always like each other, they share a lot of the same interests and, now that they’re 20 and 18 (ZOMG!!!), they’ve both grown accustomed to being able to stand up for themselves…as well as each other…especially, when their mother (again, me) is being totally unreasonable about curfews, or going to concerts, that happen to be playing two entire states away and such.

Mothering adults can be quite a sobering experience. Until, realizing that I had accidentally set my cell phone on video and then this funny little gif happened:

No matter how much these two grown up monkeys insist that…you know…I knew EXACTLY what I was doing, but don’t tell them…m’kay?!?

I’m NaBloPoMo-ing it, feel free to check out what I’ve NaBloPoMo-ed, thus far (PHEW!) and let me know how I’m doing (I mean, 30 posts, in 30 days, really?!?) when you have time, of course!

April 4, 2014

MOTY: Fughetaboutit, I’m going for Mother of Two Decades!

If you were to ask me to list the scariest words in the English language, a few years ago, it would have looked something like this:

Strep throat
It's probably viral
Chuck E. Cheese
Parent-teacher conference
I couldn't find any clean underwear (don't ask)

Today, although we are way out of the Chuck E. Cheese demographic (blessed be!) and conduct our parent-teacher conferences via email, the list is still pretty much the same.

Which leads me to believe that this house does IN FACT eat underwear AND regurgitates socks in the strangest places, sometimes.

Trust me, you do NOT want to know.

Unfortunately, my teens also still get sick, it IS most probably viral AND parents still send their kids sick to school, too. I know, because I am one of them.

Long story, short: my 15yo son (he's a freshman in high school, btw) has been home sick all week; on an antibiotic since Monday; but feverless for the last two days.

So, considering he's been working so hard on keeping his grades up (most especially, in his math class), I insisted he go back to school TODAY.

"But I really don't feel well."

Just so you know, Rule 1 of the Teen Handbook dictates: you should NEVER feel well enough to go to school.

"It's okay, your father will drive you."

Not for nothing, but Rule 2 of the Teen Handbook also dictates: you should run as late as possible, the closer you live to the school.

Even longer story, short: we're using every laundry basket in the house to block Doofus-dawg from getting up on the furniture (he fractured his foot and, as of yesterday, is wearing a splint, because OF COURSE!) and, well, there just isn't any room on the couch, dagnabit!

[phone rings]

"Hi mom, it's Glen."

Fun fact: my kids still feel the need to identify themselves, most especially to me, on the phone.

"I'm in the nurses office."

Oh, and I just thought of another phrase to add to my "scariest words in the English language" list — see above.

"I've got a 103 fever."

[eyes go wide]

Here's the part where I solidify myself as a forerunner to being awarded the Mother of the Year crown: I actually considered his messing with the thermometer, in some way.

I know, MOT..to the friggin'…D…right?!?

Until, I'm sitting in the front office and then watch…with WIDE eyes…as the nurse assists my son as they…slowly…walk…down…the…hall…to…the…front…office…in…front…of…his…Italian…teacher…and…everything.

I could NOT sink into the metal chair, deep enough.

"Hi, you Glen's mom?!?"

[one beat, two beats]

"Nope, I'm his Aunt!"

Honestly, all you other mother of the year candidates, you guys should just go home now. I GOT THIS!!!

I'm NaBloPoMo-ing it, feel free to check out what I've NaBloPoMo-ed, thus far (PHEW!) and let me know how I'm doing (I mean, 30 posts, in 30 days, really?!?) when you have time, of course!

April 3, 2014

That one time I propositioned a total stranger, right in front of my husband, while 8 months pregnant.

It's here, it's here! It's April 1st, time to turn those calendars (HARD!) and kick-off a fresh, new month with a blogging challenge, yes?!? Especially, since I sort of triple-dog dared my friend Patti at Easton Place Designs to join me in posting…every day…for the next 30 days…and Patti has already published her first #NaBloPoMo post, early this morning.

Gosh, but I love it when my friends get all bloggity and stuff!

However, if you're like me (figuratively speaking, because not many people can handle THAT much dork) and are frequented by bouts of writer's block (because, TEENS!), my friends at BlogHer have published daily writing prompts to help us blog along with this month's theme: SCANDAL.

Today's prompt: what's the most scandalous thing you've ever done?

Well, there was that one time I propositioned a total stranger, right in front of my husband, while we were waiting to take a PATH train into the World Trade Center for work. I happened to be nearly 8 months pregnant, at the time.

True story! It's okay, my kids know about it. It also happens to be one of their favorite stories, in a long line of dorky escapades, that have helped me to earn my rightful place, as Queen of the Dorks.

Long story, short: I was standing on the platform next to my husband, who walked away while I wasn't looking, and then I turned to whisper in his ear, "I cannot WAIT to get you home, tonight!"

Except, it wasn't my husband who answered.

"Really?!?"

I turned, stared into the stranger's eyes and almost gave birth…right then and there…in the middle of Newark Penn Station and everything.

"OMG!!! I'm sorry, I thought you were my husband, I SWEAR!!!"

The guy did seem rather amused, although not ROFLHAO like Garth (not his real name), at the time and ohhhhhh how the kids laugh…and laugh…at that story, still.

"Seriously, you thought he was Dad?!? Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!"

Although it isn't the most scandalous thing I have ever done, because my teens sometimes read my blog…my dad, too…it IS one of the dorkiest moments in my life and, well, don't be too jealous, okay?!?

[sound of crickets, chirping]

Hey, LOOK OVER THERE, isn't that Kerry Washington?!?

[SLAM!]

Stupid near-sightedness, dumbass dork-worthy moments.

I'm NaBloPoMo-ing it, feel free to check out what I've NaBloPoMo-ed, thus far (PHEW!) and let me know how I'm doing (I mean, 30 posts, in 30 days, really?!?) when you have time, of course!

April 1, 2014

Ohhhhh, Gwyneth…

Disclosure: I am not a big fan of Gwyneth Paltrow. Still, I totally get that people (specifically, parents) do and say some very silly things sometimes, expensive words like "conscious uncoupling" and "co-parenting" make my brain itch.

On the other hand, I use made-up phrases all the time (much to the chagrin of my grammarly-gifted friends) so I can certainly relate to the assumption that there may have been a little snark sprinkled in, because…HELLO WORLD!!!….Paltrow's got a personal lifestyle website to maintain.

So, it's no surprise that news organizations and the internets were more than ready, willing and able to start dissecting her marriage…her relationships…both business and personal, past and present…the way she eats, talks, dresses…her very character…as a person and a mom…as we speak.

I mean, wow! I can't imagine living in THAT sort of bubble or say that I would want to, especially when being called out for saying something silly or debating which mom's job is harder.

Pssst, my best guess: ALL OF THEM.

Still, I can't help but think to myself…meh, Gwyneth is living her reality…not mine…and I feel a little sad for her, even.

Her marriage is breaking up and the ENTIRE world is watching AND has an opinion.

So, since we're getting all opinionatey and stuff (and by we're, I mean me're), I'm pretty sure that Gwyneth would have a real hard time relating to me, too (either?) or the THRILL of:

Coming across loose change in the dryer AND the washer still works
Pulling on a warm pair of jeans AND finding a five dollar bill in your back pocket
Looking for that grocery list you threw into your purse AND pulling out a DOUBLE coupon
Successfully maneuvering your way out of the carpool lane…with both bumpers…still intact
Pouring gas treatment into your car AND then having the check engine light go out
Crying your way home/work/or both, wondering how you will EVER make it through the rest of the day AND then everyone at the four-way stop lets YOU go first

Long story, short: we don't know, what we don't know, but I'm pretty sure uncoupling is NOT a real word.

Oh, hang on, but according to Webster:

un-cou-ple, transitive verb \-ˈkə-pəl\ :to separate or disconnect (something) from something else.

Oh, but wait, not according to Urban Dictionary:

uncoupling isn't defined. Can you define it?

Ohhhhhh, Gwyneth. I'm so sorry. Clearly, we can't be friends. /snark

March 28, 2014