Posts (page 2)

Well, the lyrics suck but it's got a beat I could dance to.

I can only hope but please cross your fingers for me.  I've shamed him out of wearing socks with his mandals, weaned him away from plaid and madras, am coaxing him into judicious applications of hair and skin products and he's been physically active enough to lose the budding resemblance to Phil Mickelson.  I've steered him away from the Dr. Spock haircut, introduced him to music outside of They Might Be Giants and Greatest Hits of the Ukulele and persuaded him to try reading books without any pictures.  He no longer craves foods that are orange, eats products without nitrates and the only carbonation he ingests are free from corn syrup. 

These are all things that I have direct control over and so I'm proud of myself but yesterday he did something that made me proud of him.  He qualified to compete in this.  geekfest  This is in addition to qualifying for the Carnegie Mellon program and being invited to test for the John Hopkins program.  It's super easy to raise a nerd, that's why there's so many of them but to be mother of a geek?  That is something I aspire to.

Elephants!  Elephant baby!  Elephant Bambi ... cry cry.  Bad men.  Eploding helicoptor!  Police drive badly.  Ladyman.  Ugly ladyman.  Droogies wear helmets.  Hot tub of pudding, chocolate pudding.  Dang, that ladyman is uuuuhglee.  Oh oh!  Brazilian dance fighting.  Visigoth, big.  Nevermind, Marco come and Visigoth gone.  Lots more fighting.  Reason number one why you can never be a real baddass if you got a ponytail.  Reason number seventy four why a dude with a rockabilly coif needs an asskicking.  Did I mention how ugly the ladyman is?  Ooooh, why is Johny wearing the headwaiter's jacket?  Kick his ass!  His girlfriend, too because those cornrows belong back on Federline.  Oooooh, man it took a long time for all those bad guys to get their bones broke but they sure did take turns in an orderly fashion.   Ugly ladyman did a very bad thing to Daddy Elephant, she must die.  Bad men die.  Oh crap, more Visigoths and they are so huge.  Oooooh, Elephant Spirit give me power!  Bad men die.  Phew.

That was one helluva cheesy movie and worth every penny of admission price.

Doing the switchover of wardrobe, sorting out the spring/summer duds into the attic and dragging out the fall/winter wear.

How do people without attics and basements manage to stuff everything into their closets?  Oh, that's right.  They get rid of stuff.  Crazy, man.  Crazy.

My kid never believes me, for some reason.  He has to verify all truths for himself.  "Don't touch that, it's hot.", I'll say and he must still touch the object with his tender finger and yelp in pain.  "If you eat that quickly you'll be uncomfortable afterwards." will guarantee that he'll be looking for sympathy while lying there holding his tummy.  "If you don't put this sunscreen on, you're going to burn even if it is cloudy today." means that he'll be complaining of sunburn and asking for some aloe at bedtime.

The school wants all the sixth graders to get physicals this year and will provide them but I trust our pediatrician more.  Jake got all nervous about it though and started grilling me as to specifics.  He could ask his very own father, since Jeff used to be a pediatrician but noooo, he chose to ask me.  Me.  The person he doesn't trust, for some reason.

"Do I have to get naked?"
"Mmmm, don't think so.  Ask your dad."

"Am I getting any shots?"
"Yes.  You're due."
"Why?"
"Because you're due.  Ask your dad."

"What else do they do?"
"They weigh you, measure you, check your sight and hearing, reflexes.  Ask your dad."

This went on for days with him springing the same questions on me in hopes of catching me out in some variation, some lie, a mistake, but I held firm.  The people who know these things tell you that consistency is key with children and absent any real, practical advice I cling to the few guidelines that don't involve too much thought.  Occasionally though, I break under the pressure.  It's like waterboarding, the incessant prodding and a woman of my limited intelligence can hold out only so long before I spill the truth that my son knows I'm keeping secret.  He vets my replies with that unassailable authority that all children become privy to - their "friends", aka the playground information network.

"Do they squeeze your balls?" he asks, as I'm cooking.  It's always like this, seeming non-sequitors that get fired at me when I'm distracted.  I'm more likely to be caught off guard and tricked into blurting out the real plans.

"Do they do what?  Squeeze your balls?  Who told you that?"  I'm buying time because I think they are going to squeeze his balls and I don't want him obsessing about having them squeezed for the next two weeks.

"Michael.  He says that the doctor squeezes your balls."
"Well, I don't know if they squeeze them for this exam but ask your dad.  He was a pediatrician, you know."
"Why do they squeeze them?  What's the purpose?  Will I get my balls squeezed at some point?"
Oh lord, please heal my shredded tongue.
"Well, did Michael say why his balls got squeezed?"
"To check them.  What are they checking them for?"
"Umm, maybe they're counting them?  Maybe, they make sure you have two and not one or three and so they are just counting them."  That one ends with us cracking up at the doctor discovering the wrong quantity of balls.  "Good heavens!  I'm calling Ripley's right now, stay right there.  Don't go away, I have to get the camera.  Nurse, nurse!  Jacob Marshall has threeeee ba- er, testicles!"  We agree that it might be better to have one too many rather than be short one.  In the ball department it can't hurt to have a spare for when you get hit by stray balls or random girls in the cafeteria line.

I'm lulled into believing that I've assuaged his anxiety with my trademark Mom schtick but no, he lets fly again.  "So, if she squeezes my balls, is it going to hurt?"  Jeeesus, I'm gonna squeeze them myself if he keeps bringing it up at inappropiate times.  I'm just a tad thrown off to have this hurled at me while I'm paying for my purchases at the concession stand and while I'm not truly bothered by what strangers think, I do want my children to have a rudimentary grasp on social conventions.  I imagine that it will come in handy at job interviews and dating people with thumbs.  So I ignore him until we're out of earshot and then tell him we'll talk about it later.

Later means that he's all tucked in bed and buying some more time before he has to shut his light off.  (I'm thinking that he may be getting just a tad too old for this ritual but that's an issue for another post)  He's gotten his kisses and instead of turning out his light he says "How old do you have to be before they squeeze your balls when you go to the doctor?"  "I'm not sure, I don't have any so you'll have to ask your dad.  I love you, sleep tight."

I actually spend time thinking about what exactly is making him anxious and consider asking if I can have one of the male partners at the practise do his physical.  Perhaps that the crux of his worry, having Cynthia be the one to "squeeze his balls" but when asked, he says that's not a problem.  He likes his doctor and is a creature of habit so it's not that it's a woman.  Evidently he's become fixated on the squeezing. of the balls.  I explain it to the best of my hobbled ability, not owning said articles gives me a distinct disadvantage, yet again.  I tell him to ask his father, yet again but Jeff's out of town and I keep forgetting to yell "ask him about the balls" when Jake's on the phone with him.  I am a bad mother.

The morning before the exam, it finally comes to a head.  All the previous grilling serves its purpose, building to such a pressure that I finally crack when he comes at me again.  Please, understand that this time he drilled down at 6:23 a.m. and I had not yet had my 8 ounces of espresso strength coffee.  Please.  There's only so much I'm capable of as a parent and coffee is my ally in this undertaking.  Poor choices got me to this place but coffee helps me to make better ones.  Without coffee I make more poor choices, as the following will show.

"Okay.  So if she does squeeze my balls it's not going to hurt, right?  Mom?  Wake up, Mom."
"Right.  It shouldn't hurt.  When she sticks her finger in your butt, it might."
"Whaaaaat???  A finger in my butt?"
"Nah, only if I pay extra."

By the time I got him out the door for the bus, I had him calmed down and giggling, kind of.  In that nervous way.I soothe him and agree that it was indeed a very sick thing to say to my 11 year old, no matter that he finds Family Guy the highest source of funny on the planet.  Dumbass.  I mean, Family Guy and not Jake.  Of course.

"Ask Michael, he'll tell you that you're not gonna get a finger up your butt."  That seals the deal, in his mind.  I lie but Michael doesn't, evidently.  However, Paul is not to be trusted at all.  He's even worse than me when it comes to information.

"Mom?  What's a hernia?" he asks, while trying not to snicker.  Since I had already had coffee at that point I knew how to respond appropiately.  "I'll tell you but what do you think it is?"  "Well, Paul says it's when you swallow your food and it drops down to your ballsack."  See?  Paul needs to drink more coffee.

I'm due to turn a big 46 tomorrow and I'm reminded of a day at the senior citizens home down the road.  Yesyes, I've got a berth all picked out, smartass.  We were there this summer for the dress rehearsal for Sophia's piano recital, it's a very forgiving venue.  I had Mister Charlie with us and he was doing his little walking upright stunt, which is beyond adorable. 

He dances on his hindlegs while waving his front paws in the air and it kills, I'm telling you.  So, anyway, he's making all the old folks swoon at the cuteness and one of the men beckons us over so that he can whisper to me, "See that old lady down there, at the end?"  I blink at him and clamp down on my obvious reply, start to glance down that row and he hisses, "No!  Don't look!" which leaves me in a predicament.  Which old lady is he referring to?  What, exactly, is old in this man's book?  I mean, he's pushing ... 85, I dunno but she must be ancient if he's calling her old so I just go with that.  I nod.  "Well, make sure he doesn't go near her because she HATES dogs."

For some reason, I hope that I grow old enough for an ancient geezer to refer to me as old.  If I overhear him I will beat  him with my walker.

I keep playing this, over and over.

Well, it certainly seemed clear to me but what do I know?  I'm both female and an unbeliever in either of their bloody minded doctrines and for me, both religions are filled with sexist, little, perverted wankers.  That's might have something do with why I laughed right out loud when I read this:

"Anyone who describes Islam as a religion as intolerant encourages violence," Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Tasnim Aslam said.

Because right now I'm drowing in stuff.  I was barely keeping even with the stuff that I already had and that he insisted on bringing with him in addition to all of the kids' stuff but now, now I'm gonna choke on all the stuff.  Unfortunately he packed the truck bed so well that we didn't lose one single thing on the trip back, not even one box of bandaids24pairsofworkgloves6rainponchosendlesstoinfinity STUFF.

And is he sorting or unpacking or organizing any of this stuff?  No.  Because he must, MUST vacuum because "the floor is a mess".  Duh.  You think?  I hate housework, most of it, and yet I get completely wigged out if there is stuff everywhere and if anything stinks.  Those are my two priorities and I'll do just about anything to make sure my surroundings smell good and that as much stuff as possible is put away but I don't give two shits about vacuuming or mopping any more than neccessary.

I'm losing my shit today, because of all the boring and ugly and fairly useless stuff that remains to be unpacked and dealt with.  I so wish I could just pitch most of it in the garbage.  Of course, my stuff is all good.  John summed it up, "Between your being the Gadget Queen and my being the Packrat King ..."

What actually made me snap today was the realisation that a) I've been crowded out of room for shoes and b) found yet another fucking oatmeal snack bar in a box of miscellaneous office stuff ....

Oh man, Jake is gonna freak when he reads this.  One time I got bored with the standard answer when he asked me the classic "Where do we come from, Mommy?" and I answered "From Mars and we're all waiting for the revolution."  That wasn't so good because he believed me and it took weeks and weeks of brainwashing to get him to relax.  "When are you going to show me your real Martian face?", etc., etc.

We're all around you now.

Aliens are among us – Martians to be exact – and they are roaming the earth right now -- although you wouldn’t necessarily be able to spot one because, well, because they’re Asian.

Yep, you read right. Asians are Martians or vice versa.

According to Reynolds, the Asian race is a result of Martian and aboriginal Earthlings interbreeding more than half a million years ago.

Reynolds says the Martians came to Earth long ago with the intent to colonize and relocate from their home on Mars, but were confronted by the angry aboriginal earthlings in the Gobi desert before they could stake their claim.

The earthlings were too much for the Martians to handle and, although they had more advanced ray guns, the Martians ended up surrendering because they don’t believe in war.

“They knew if they (the Martians) shot, it would set back their own spiritual plan,” Reynolds explained.

Eventually the Martians and Aboriginals started getting busy together and over the years the offspring turned into today’s vast Asian population.

Reynolds says pure blood Martians are still on Mars waiting for the right time to make themselves known to the human race.