The kid is an irish dancer. For anyone who has a child who partakes in the irish dance world (or any major sport for that matter) you understand that it will cost DH and me enough to send her to Harvard 3 times over by the time she is done (ok, I’m exaggerating just a little, but still…).
I was day dreaming today and thinking of all the things I could do if she decided to just join the debate club at school instead. I felt the need to share to put it all into perspective:
- 1 year of tuition x 14 years = one in-ground pool
- 3 solo dresses = a 2-bedroom apartment in NYC’s Upper West Side for a month
- 3 team dresses = LASIK surgery for my left eye
- Wigs & Crowns = Tiffany necklace
- Soft shoes, hard shoes and poodle socks = 27 inch iMac
- Private lessons (really stupid since we pay an arm and a leg for tuition) = a full body massage
- 7 years going to Regionals = A 2.5 week trip for two to Hawaii
- Going to Worlds once (secretly hoping it stays that way) = LASIK surgery for my right eye
- 14 years of local competitions = One master bathroom renovation
- Dress alterations = full body massage PLUS facial & manicure
- 1 happy kid = Priceless or I have to have my head examined, whichever way you want to look at it
When I signed her up, I had no idea what was coming. Not one person warned me that it would turn into a 4 class a week, competition led sport. Not ONE!
To add insult to injury the kid loves it. She dances around the house all day, all night. Down the hallway, in the shower, during dinner. If you ever run into us at the mall, you probably will catch a performance. Rally one, Rally two. AAAAHHHHH!!!!!!
So, instead of a trip around the world TWICE, I get to sit at competitions all day long. Who can relate in one form or another? Let’s see, 3 years, 4 months and 21 days until our money is ours again. Oh wait. I forgot about college. Never mind.
I’ve got a bone to pick with the manufacturers of all automatic public restroom appliances. Whether it be the soap and paper towel dispenser, the sink and even the toilet—they all suck. For the record, they are not supposed to suck. They are supposed to wash, rinse and dry your hands.
Let’s start with the soap dispenser. Holy hell. Spit some damn soap out, will you? We stand there waving and waving. If we are lucky, we may be rewarded with a teeny squirt enough to wash the tip of your finger. 3 minutes go by and you may have enough to actually wash an entire hand. Forget about trying to add some water, that’s another 3 minutes. I feel like I’m playing musical sinks running from one to another to get one that actually works.
And the automatic paper towel dispenser? Again, they give you enough to dry half a hand, so we stand there and listen to the motor pump out an inch of paper at a time begging for more, only to feel like a total loser. Nothing like INCREASING our carbon footprint.
One more thing. Who likes to get sprayed in the nether regions when we least expect it? I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of bacteria was just splashed at my hoo-hoo. I find myself in a race against time to step away before it’s done its thing. Too often I lose.
So, hear hear to the old fashioned pumps, faucets, flushers and manual handle turning of yesteryear. Screw it if we contract flu or malaria. It’s totally worth it.
Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels. I say it over and over again in my head so I don’t forget why I’m going into the pantry. By the time I reach the pantry, I’ve stopped saying it because I suddenly remember that I really enjoyed last week’s Grey’s Anatomy episode. Boy, that Cristina and Owen are so sexy together. I’m really digging their “non-married” relationship. It’s HOT. Mmmm.
Wait. What was I doing??? Oh yeah, I was getting….oh damn. Now I have to backtrack, go to the exact spot I was standing in, and pray that it comes back to me. Let’s see….I was washing the dishes that my dishwashing allergic family left in the sink. I was going to dry them. Oh, right….
Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels. Gee, I’m really looking forward to getting my hair cut tomorrow. I can’t do a damn thing with it. What time is my appointment again?
I spent 5 hours cleaning the first floor of my house this past Monday. No, I don’t clean my house like this every week. It’s just that I hadn’t cleaned my house since before Christmas. As you all know from this post — Manual Labor Was Invented by the Devil — I am not a fan. But it was getting pretty nasty in here so if I didn’t want a divorce, I figured I should probably do something about the dust monsters under the couch and the Christmas tree needles, well….everywhere.
You know that feeling when you have completed the task of scrubbing down your house? It feels really good. But if anyone comes in here and walks around on the floor or messes up the soap dish, you want to kill them.
Every Monday night I get together with some friends. I know. It’s great. I highly recommend it. I left at 7:30 and got home at around midnight. It was pretty late, so I went straight to bed. When I came downstairs to help the kid with breakfast the next morning, this is what greets me:
Let’s see…I was gone 4.5 hours. When I left, there were 2 people in this house and 0 items in the sink. There are now 2 plates, 2 bowls, 6 glasses/cups, 1 pot, 1 spoon, 2 forks, 2 knives, 1 measuring cup, 1 wooden spoon, 1 rubber spatula, 1 serving spoon, 1 strainer, 1 pan from the toaster oven and 1 sink strainer basket that has mac & cheese, tomato pieces and strawberries in it.
There is actually an allergy to dishwashing machines. Yup. I looked it up. Apparently it has struck 2 of the 3 people living here. Hmmm. I guess I shouldn’t complain. These DID make it into the sink. And that counts for something, right? RIGHT?
No, not a groupIE — a rock band following floozy. But a groupER — a bottom feeding fish. That’s how I like to describe myself these days. I believe that is one of the reasons why I have gained a bale of hay…55 pounds…since this:
DH, the kid and I went to a local BBQ place for lunch over the weekend. This is what we ordered:
- Potato Skins
- Onions Rings
That was just for starters. For my main meal, I ordered a pulled pork sandwich with sweet potato fries. The kid ordered a pulled pork sandwich with regular fries, but that doesn’t matter. She’s 14.
DH ordered a small cup of chili. That is why I can bounce a quarter off his ass AND his stomach. Even though he is old. Even though he is middle-aged. Because he is not a grouper, he is a guppy.
There was this left over:
- 1/4 of a potato skin
- 2 onion rings
- 1 wing
- 1/2 sandwich
- 1 small pile of sweet potato fries
DH hates leftovers. They pretty much repulse him. Me? There are starving children in Ethiopia and I cannot, will not, throw anything away. Well, unless it starts to look like a science project and even then I have a problem with it.
So against hubby’s wishes I told the server to wrap it all up. That was Saturday. Yesterday was Monday. DH tried to toss out my leftovers twice but I caught him and threatened bodily harm.
So I ate this for lunch to save it’s life:
Even though I wasn’t hungry. If I didn’t, it would go into the garbage and I couldn’t live with myself. I guess that explains why I look like this now:
All because I can’t throw away food. Ok, I’ll say it…I’m middle aged too. I know that doesn’t help. I also know I’ll never have that 23 year old body again. But come on. A bale of hay?
If you liked my Cal-Pro story, you’ll love this one. It’s quite obvious that my parents were on a budget. So in addition to not being able to obtain Adidas, I couldn’t have Jordache jeans either.
What I did have were these totally rad gauchos. My mom had a sewing machine. Unfortunately for me, she wasn’t very good with it. Every time I saw a pattern out on the table, I’d pray it wasn’t for me.
This one particular outfit stands out for me mostly because I wore it for my first day in a new school. I was 12. 12 was a pinnacle year for me for fashion. My gauchos were made with the stiffest denim known to man. I believe the material was meant to upholster bus seats with. What happens when you make gauchos out of stiff denim? You become a triangle. The top was a short sleeved shirt with an elastic neckline. Why elastic? I guess there was a sale on it. Add in knee socks and saddle shoes and I am a total trend setter.
Honestly, I don’t know how I had any friends. It must have been my winning personality. Well, at least the saddle shoes were the same size. Sorry, mom. I know you meant well. At least you clothed us. But an elastic neckline? Were you trying to kill me on purpose? Gag.
Let’s go back to 1979. Remember Caldor? Well, do you remember the bin in the back of the shoe department? You know the one. It was filled to the brim with Cal-Pro sneakers. Each shoe was attached to its twin by a really nice elastic rubber band. Awesome. Every 12 year old girl’s dream.
Yup, you guessed it. I was one of the lucky few who got to actually own a pair of these. When all my friends had those totally nerdy Adidas and Pumas, I got Cal-Pros. I was incredibly cool. The envy of all the school.
The first time I tried them on was at gym class. When I got them on, I saw that one shoe was a whole size larger than the other. I literally spent the entire class with my toes lined up so it would look like they were the same size. I’ll tell you, playing dodgeball with your feet pressed together doesn’t work very well. Let’s just say I was an easy target.
I’m not sure what ever happened to those sneakers. Did my mom return them? I don’t remember. I guess I blocked it out. And the rubber band system? What were they smoking at the factory? Thanks a lot potheads. You were a huge help in my development and for that I’m forever indebted to you.
The kid wanted a Facebook account. Now, DH and I are pretty strict. We did not give in to her easily. We had to think about it, mull it over, digest it, dissect it. Finally we relented. I had my own page so I could keep an eye on things.
She was happier than a dog eating poop. Everything’s great. Happy kid, happy mom. Until about 6 months later.
The Kid: Mom, what are you doing?
Me: I’m checking my notifications.
The Kid: Oh, mom get with the program. Facebook is so yesterday.
The Kid: Can I get an Instagram?
First of all, it took me a year to figure out the term “notifications” and she is ready to move on? Second of all, what the hell is an Instagram and why do you need it? Apparently, it’s a place where you post pictures. In my opinion, no one wants to see how you dress your cat.
Now she’s working on us for a Twitter account. Isn’t that so “yesterday?” Chirp chirp. Or is it Tweet?
Ok, like gag me with a spoon. I guess every generation has their own lingo. But really. I can’t even have a conversation with these kids without a translator. What are they talking about?
So, I looked up some of the definitions of these “words.” Here is a list that I compiled to help parents try to understand their child:
- Sweet = beyond cool
- YOLO = You Only Live Once
- Noob = when someone doesn’t know basic pop culture
- LOL = Laugh Out Loud
- Sick = awesome or cool
- Hater = referred to as someone who is angry or jealous because of their success
- Swag = being cool
- Reach = attending an event
- My Mains = group of friends
- Rachet = someone who is rude and obnoxious
- Flex = someone who likes to show off
- Dope = cool or slick
- Derp = dumbass
- Dip = leaving a party
- Chirp = to insult someone
Just don’t try to talk like this. It’s really not “sweet” at our age and they’ll let you know.
Something else I’ve noticed: the shortening of words. The Kid will say things like “she’s presh” (precious). Or “I’m hun” (hungry). My personal favorite: “that’s cray” (crazy).
The next time you have a conversation with your teen, try this: “so, like did you have a bitchin’ day? My day was so bangin’. I saw this bimbette wearing this totally barfsome outfit. I was like gross me out the door.” See if they follow. Totally gnarly dude.
In my previous life (exactly 14.7 years ago), I was “PowerPoint Extraordinaire.” I could pump out slides with charts, transitions and animations in no time flat. So when my employment agent called to say there was a fabulous position open for me with tons of PPT presentation work, I jumped at the chance.
But there was a catch. I had to be proficient in PowerPoint 10. I would have to know it backwards, forwards, inside and out. I would have to eat and drink it. And I would have exactly 62 hours in which to do so, if I didn’t include sleeping.
“No problem,” I said to him, “I got this.” So, I proceed to my computer where I download a free version and get to working. Luckily for me, I was able to score a cheat sheet for the test that I have to take. A timed test.
So the first round? Well, it only took me two hours to do slide number 1. Slide number 2 & 3…I skipped. I kinda was able to do number 4. And 5, 6, 7? Forget it. So I took a break and poured myself a glass of wine.
The second round? Yeah, that was spent watching 2 episodes of House Hunters with DH and another glass of wine. Because drinking wine is much easier than trying to make a pie chart. And the test? It turns out you only get a half an hour. They are looking for Flash Gordon. I think they called the wrong number.