Twist and shout
By Me | March 24, 2008
It’s a part of the nature of being a parent that you complain a lot.
Of course, my kids complain a lot, too. I think they think it makes them sound like a grown-up … and what does that tell you?
Here’s my complaint of the moment: I realize that the mechanics involved in working a toilet roll, such that you actually put a new roll of TP in place of the skeletal remains of the one you just finished, is beyond my kids.
I find that they are also too mechanically challenged to be able to work a twist-tie.
We have finally persuaded them than stale bread tastes worse than not-stale bread, so they will (usually) attempt to close the bread bag. It’s just that they don’t tend to use a twist-tie to do it.
It also means that, depending on how little I feel like imitating Martha Stewart this week, my kitchen might at any time be littered with unknown numbers of twist-tie corpses.
That’s normal, too. They’ll leave empty boxes in the cabinets and empty wrappers of all sorts on the cabinets and almost-but-not-quite empty containers in the fridge (“I didn’t eat the last of it! I left some — there!”), because they all seem to be afraid of or allergic to throwing things into the trash.
They can, however, sometimes be counted on to throw things near the trash.
I love my kids, I really do.
But, all things considered, I suspect that the cats love them even more.
Topics: Nature's Psyche Lab (aka Family) | No Comments »
Glory days pass me by …
By Me | March 6, 2008
Once upon a time, I had perky little boobies that were perky and … um … little.
They nestled happily under my clothing, asking nothing. They didn’t come into play very much when I was in femme fatale mode because, being perky and little, they were not designed to appeal to the male libido. For that, I relied on the legs — even though I rarely (ever?) met a self-avowed leg man.
Parenthetically, I don’t think there is any such thing. I have come to the conclusion that all men are fundamentally boob men; some of them are simply more willing to work with what they can get than others.
In any event, my perky little boobs seemed perfectly satisfied with the situation. They were quite willing to converse quietly with each other inside my blouses and tee shirts, waiting for their day in the spotlight.
That did not happen until after I started having children. At that point, they became significantly less little but they remained (temporarily) perky — although their perk was directly proportional to the amount of time that had elapsed since the last time I fed the kid.
Fast forward four kids and a quarter of a century and the boobs are no longer either little or perky (although I’m told by my childless friends that children have nothing to do with it; gravity is the enemy). They are not depressed exactly, simply tired.
But it’s a good tired. It’s the tired of a pair of boobs that take satisfaction in a job well done. Sort of the way you feel after a particularly good workout.
I guess, when the rest of me goes into retirement, I can hope to feel the same way about my life’s work.
But it’s kind of sad, the thought that one’s boobs have retired. I suppose, if I had the money and the inclination, I could put them under the knife and bring them forcibly out of retirement. But that would be cruel, as if the good work they have already done is somehow not enough.
They may not be little and perky anymore, but they are still cheerful. And, if they still don’t attract much attention, that bothers me a lot less now than it did when I was in my twenties.
That’s one nice thing about getting older. You get to stop worrying about stuff like that.
Topics: Stuff | 1 Comment »
Say please
By Me | February 18, 2008
At the risk of sounding like my own grandmother, I have to say that kids these days are really rude. Observe:
Me: Hello?
Child on Phone: Who’s this?
Me: Who did you want to speak to?
CoP: Just … who is this?
Me: You are so rude! Who did you want to speak to?
CoP: I just wanna know who this is!
Me: Why?
CoP: Because if this is Richard’s mom, then I wanna tell her something.
Me: Well, if you want to tell Richard’s mom something, then why don’t you just ask for Richard’s mom!?
CoP: Well, can I speak to Richard’s mom?
Me: Yes, you may. What do you want, Josh?
And people wonder why young people have so much trouble functioning in the workforce. They don’t seem to know the basics of how to make a phone call.
All I know is that, if I had behaved that way on a telephone call (especially when talking to an adult), my mom would have knocked me across the room.
Those were the days.
Let’s hear it for child abuse!
Topics: Social Commentary, WTF? | No Comments »
If you believe
By Me | February 4, 2008
If you live in one of those 24 states like I do, don’t forget to vote tomorrow.
Topics: Politics | 1 Comment »