Face-twitt-agram

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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.

Me:  Oh.

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?

You Got Swag You Cray-Cray Peep

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.

You Can’t Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

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.

 

Soft Skin is for Woosies

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What is the aversion toward lotion for men?  I mean, in what book does it say, “All men shall go without moisturizer?”  Is there a law in some guy book?  If I’m missing something,  please clue me in.

My DH, God love him, is so particular about his appearance.  Every crease in his pants have to be pressed just so.  His tucked in shirt cannot show a wrinkle, a crease or a fold.  I can’t share a bathroom with him because he takes too damn long.  But hand him a bottle of lotion and he looks at it like it’s going to give him Herpes Simplex 2.

And my dad…he is a different story altogether.  The guy has enough flakes coming off his legs and feet to rival that of the Swiss Alps.  My mom has to wipe down his bedside table every morning because of the dust that has collected during the night.

We women must make a stand.  What can we do to get these guys to understand that using body lotion will NOT turn them into a girl?  I say to them, “embrace your feminine side”…and we promise not to call you Sue.

Leave Your Bags at the Door

I am the mother of a 14 year old.  I am just about at that stage in my life when I will have to start searching her friends’ bags when they come over for any hidden paraphernalia.  For instance: beer, vodka, bongs…

Now I was no saint when I was a teen.  But I didn’t start acting like a complete dumb-ass until I was at least 16.  What’s with these kids today and their need to grow up so fast?  Teenagers are stupid.  Even though at this age I proclaimed to my mother that MY children will be allowed to do whatever they wanted.

I worry that my kid will make the wrong decision someday but for right now I’m feeling pretty confident that she won’t.

Here are just some of my reasons:

  1. She will not take cough medicine even though she is coughing so badly she has all but coughed up her esophagus.
  2. She will not swallow her Flintstone vitamin AND an Advil because she’s afraid of drug interaction.
  3. She will not spray a little saline up her nose to help ease some dryness for fear of becoming addicted.
  4. She will not take Tylenol because someone once told her it will kill her liver.

So, to those mom’s who also check bags…I think you may be safe with this one. Unless she’s holding it for someone else.  But that is a whole other topic.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year…NOT

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And I’m not talking about Christmas either.  The kid has been a member of the Girls Scouts since 2003.  I love the good ole’ Girl Scouts.  I talk them up every chance I get.  My daughter has learned so much from being a GS.  She can light a fire (I mean camp, and she better keep it that way), she can pitch a tent, she is a master crafter, she has learned respect.  And last but not least, she can make new friends AND keep the old.

One thing she is not good at…selling GS Cookies. Nope, somehow that has become MY job.  What happened to the days of those cute little girl scouts going door to door?  Perhaps it was the realization that there are perverts and child molesters lurking about.

Yup, so in order to keep her safe, I took over the job.  Her leader (God bless her, I don’t know how she does it…in other words, better her than me.) would like for each of them to have a goal of 50 boxes sold.  Sure right okay, as soon as I charter that first flight to Mars.

Look, I know people SAY they look forward to GS cookie time, but do they really?  I have been asking, begging, promising favors in return, for my friends, family, coworkers to buy for years.

It’s for a good cause.  Yes, you can freeze them.  No, you don’t have to pay now.  You’re on a diet?  Well you can donate cookies to the food pantry because they are so nutritious.  My personal favorite complaint: “but they are $3.50 everywhere else.”

So, every year, I moan, groan and bitch when I see that blasted cookie order form and start on my quest to fill the orders.

On my honor, I will try….oh, who wants cookies???

They Do WHAT On the Bus?

Back of School Bus

About 2 years ago, I started hearing these horrible stories about what goes on in the back of the school bus.  I was completely flabbergasted not to mention a bit freaked out.  I know I sound like my mother, but what is happening to the youth of today?

So, needless to say, I had to have the “talk” with my child.  I mean, she already got the generic Birds and Bees talk.  You know, the “you must wait until you are married for 5 years, and only if you really, really love your husband can you share that love in a special way that MARRIED men and women do” talk.  I was pissed that I had to go a bit deeper.  Damn you, stupid slutty girls.

Me:  Do you know what Oral Sex is?

The Kid:  Well, yes.

Me: (oh God) What do you think it is?

The Kid:  um…when you talk about sex?

Phew…ok, she’s still Pollyanna.  Now I had to, in a way that would scare the living shit out of her, tell my sweet little 12 year old what this Oral Sex was all about. Luckily, she was completely, out of this world, disgusted by the concept.  I can only hope this disgust lasts for, oh I don’t…EVER?!

As for the kids sitting at the back of the bus?  Some words of advice:  Boys, keep it in your pants.  Girls, keep your mouths closed, it ain’t all that.

For the Love of a Log

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Everyone knows how much I love the grocery store.  Well, I didn’t go just once this week, I went TWICE.  Why, you ask?  Because I’m the dumb ass who forgot something, or some things.  Forgetting stuff during Can-Can week is a mortal sin in my book.

I was expecting some friends over Monday night and in addition to some essentials I had, um…forgotten, I wanted to get one of those Dura-Logs so we could have a nice cozy fire.

Anyway, I can’t find the damn log.  I have been up and down every dang isle TWICE looking for it.  I wish Shop Rite would stop moving crap around.  To top it off, I can’t find a single staff member.

I’m ready to sock the idea when I finally see not one, but two store employees talking amongst themselves at the end cap of isle number 14.  I squeeze in as closely as I can to avoid being stampeded and stare at them for a good half minute hoping to catch their attention.  They look at me and continue on.  Great.

So, just to recap real quick…I’m pissed because I’ve walked all over the f’ing store not once, but twice.  I can’t find a single employee who can help me and when I do find an employee, I’m completely ignored.  Oh, and I’m dodging can-loving freaks like bullets.  Do I sound like I’m in a good mood???

Suddenly, I hear this — “look lady, pick a direction and move in it.”  When I look up, I realize he is speaking to me.  He reminded me of Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz with his fingers pointed in both directions, but not so cute.  “You’re holding up traffic.”  Geez, if he only had a brain.

The look I shot Scarecrow could have frozen the Amazon.  I think I actually saw fear in his eyes.  And the log?  I passed the whole blasted stack of ’em coming in the front door.

The Belt

Yesterday I told of my daughter’s special gift of my leftover “incidentals.”  Well, at least they had a sticky strip to make her life easier.  Would you like to hear about MY hand-me-down?

Hysterectomies run in my family.  A tradition that runs 4 generations deep on my maternal side.  Anyway, when my mom lost her “womanhood”, she left me a nice surprise but I wouldn’t find out about it until it was too late.  Believe me, if I had known it would have accidentally died in a fire.

Mother Nature showed up when I was 14, sitting in my room, on the floor, doing a puzzle.  My mother was at work.  My father was home.  Oh God.

I called my mom in total panic mode.  She instructed me to go to the hall closet.  In the said closet on the top shelf is where it was, cobwebs and all.  What I pulled down completely had me puzzled.

Unknown

What is it?  A headband? A dog collar?  I could only wish.  For those of you who don’t know, it’s called a Sanitary Belt.  Honestly, I think it was a hand me down from HER mother.  And the pad I had to use?  It looked like it was made for a menstrating elephant.  Never mind an 80 pound teenage girl child.  Once I figured it out and got it on, it flopped about until dad drove me to the nearest pharmacy where he made ME go in and get some supplies.

Well, 30 years and many therapy sessions later, I’m over it.  And whatever became of the belt?  It’s hanging in the Smithsonian.  Right next to the torture rack.

Hyster-ical

When the kid was about 2, my monthly visitor Flo, started getting a bit too heavy for my taste.  I could get graphic, but I will spare you the bloody details.

It only took about 10 years for my OB to realize that my fibroid was the “first I’ve ever seen in my 30 year career.”  It had faster growth than Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids.

These were my choices:  medication that would catapult me into early menopause (having bamboo shoots rammed under my nail beds seemed more appealing) or a hysterectomy.  The good doctor thought I should think it through, talk to the hubby.  Yeah right.  My hubby isn’t the one with the tumor the size of Mount Vesuvius, which by the way,  oozed less than I did.  I immediately replied with a “let’s rip ‘er out.”  No thought necessary.

I think I was most surprised by everyone’s reaction.  I thought for sure they’d all be as happy as I was.  I felt like I did when I first learned of my pregnancy.  I couldn’t wait to share the news.  DH thought I should get a second opinion and some thought I would be hurled into a depression.

Well, the second opinion?  Thanks, honey, but if you’ve removed one uterus, you’ve removed them all.  This isn’t brain surgery.  And depression?  I had one person send me a link to a Dr. Oz show on just this thing.  Give me a break.  I was more depressed when they stopped airing “Thirty Something.”

So, I had a Bon Voyage party for my period and on April 7, 2010 my tumor and lady parts were removed and deposited into the nearest dump.  I kid you not — I was the happiest I have been EVER!  As far as all the incidentals I still had: I wrapped them up in a pretty bow and gave them to my daughter as a gift.  She didn’t appreciate it.  Ingrate.