Tag: funny stuff

Friday Bits and Pieces

— Mortification, thy name is Morgan. Exhibit A: Dressing Room of Ann Taylor Loft. Mo, Co and I are in the biggest dressing room to accommodate the stroller, the jackets, the bags of stuff to return, the girls’ activity packs (i.e. snacks, books, crayons, papers, blankies, loveys, and assorted paraphernalia needed to placate the girls so that I can try on a couple of things in quick succession), both girls and me. I’ve got a couple of pairs of pants that I want to try on because wearing blue jeans everyday — no matter how many different cuts and washes you may have — is starting to feel like a uniform.

So, we’re in the dressing room. Keep in mind that my own clothes are in a puddle on the floor, I’m trying to shimmy into another pair of pants, so Mo and Co have front row seats to the “Hilary With One L Mismatched Underwear Review” (sorry, one show only, no repeat performances), when the sales clerk knocks on the door to ask if I need any other sizes and if everything is okay.

Mo opens the door and says, “My mom has lightening bolts on her stomach!”
Um, yeah, I’ll have the next size up in those pants, thanks.
—- I’ve become hooked on 30 Rock. I mean, I’m watching it. . .alot. To the point where I’ve downloaded all available seasons to my “View Instantly” Queue from Netflix, instead of waiting for the DVD to just come in the mail.

DH is out of town, so when the girls go to bed, and I head on over to Studio 6H. It’s really becoming an obsession — Jack Donaghy was in my dream last night, making me try on Sheinhardt Wigs. Blerg!
— I was at the nail salon the other day and my nail tech and another customer were telling me about this new store in the mall called Charming Charlie’s. I’ve passed by it a few times, but have never actually crossed the threshold. From a distance it looks like. . .what is the name of that garish looking print from the 1980’s that was on all the Trapper Keeper’s and pencil cases and stuff? Oh, I can picture it — fuchsias and purples and some teal and leopard print thrown in. Anyway, that’s what the store reminded me of. In any event the tech and the customer, both of whom are self-confessed grandmothers were talking about the store and how awesome it is and yadda, yadda, yadda, “it’s much classier than Forever 21“.
Can I take a pause for the cause here? Granted, these two women were very fresh faced to be grandmothers. They had stylish haircuts, they had tattooed make-up (or a very close approximation thereof) and one of them was wearing Uggs — in fuchsia — but calling a store classier than Forever 21? Wow. And then the customer said to me, “I really think Forever 21 needs to clean up their store. I mean, I can fit in their clothes and all because I’m a size 4, but that place is so junky.”
I’m sorry, I kind of lost how we moved from a retailer to your clothing size and back again. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll give you a topic. New Jersey is neither new nor is it a jersey. Discuss.
Okay, I’m alright now.
—- Mortification, they name is Morgan. Exhibit B: We’re at Trader Joe’s, where I have forestalled a brewing meltdown by power-walking through the aisles at a breakneck pace, throwing flashy packaged items into the cart in the hopes of getting in, through the line, and getting out before the girls realize that they were ever removed from the car in the first place. We make it through the line where the gracious clerk gives the girls some I ♥ Trader Joe’s stickers. Mom that I am, I notice that Co has two stickers and Mo has about 6 stickers. Were it the other way around, I’m sure that Mo would have been having an apoplectic fit about the injustice and inhumanity of the unequal sticker distribution. But this is not the case, so I can only wonder what she’s about to come out with after she approaches the clerk with a super sweet, “Um, excuse me?”
“Yes, sweetheart?” says the clerk.
“Um, are you a boy or a girl?” asks Morgan.
Don’t worry, I did turn it into a teachable moment and what not, but thankfully the clerk, who was in fact a woman, was pretty cool about it. She even said that she had an unusually deep voice and a rather unflattering haircut. Still, my first response was, “Blerg!”
— I had no idea that small children (i.e. Mo and Co) could break wind like truckers that subsist on greasy spoon fare like chicken fried steak or steak fried chicken or steak fried steak with a side of fried eggs, a plate of bacon, and a generous portion of grease with which to flavor the whole enterprise. Mo has been walking around passing gas with Swiss like regularity. Evidently, she observed my grandmother tooting around during the holidays. In Grams defense, she’s 88 and not really friends with Beano. Yesterday, Mo broke one off that was picked up all the way in Chesapeake and then said, “Wow. I’m as bad as Grandma Martha!”
— Today, the girls have been playing this game where they introduce themselves to each other by saying, “I’m Craig. Please to meet you.” They then shake hands and dissolve into a fit of giggles. Very cute, but then they have been referring to me as “Daddy’s wife”. Um, not really sure where that came from.
TGIF, people, TGIF.
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IN: ON: January 22, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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The Boob Tube

So, we have one television. We’ve had only one television for a number of years, actually, and it works for us. We try not to let the girls watch to much TV, but it’s not because we think it rots their brains. It’s more of the house could be falling down around their ears and they would turn up the volume on the set because they couldn’t hear Olivia’s dialogue over the crashing of support beams.


Example A: Morgan is first introduced to TV as something we turn on while I braid her hair. I need for her to sit still, and the glow of the screen entrances her. That makes me a little nervous, but for the 25 minutes her show is on, she no longer looks like zippity-do-dah about the head. She’s not quite 2 yet, but she’s stringing a few words together to make herself understood. She starts asking to watch “a show” and DH and I gently remind her that it’s only for when we do her hair. She asks, “Watch news?”

Did I mention she’s not quite two yet? When did she learn the difference between CNN and Playhouse Disney? When we gently explain to her that isn’t going to happen, she simply turns to DH and preys on his weakness. “Watch Cow-ba-boys?” she asks? Oh, are we in for it.

Example B: Morgan turns 3 years old and as a birthday treat, I let her watch The Little Mermaid. She was still mastering potty training and realized, at a crucial scene in the movie, she had to go to the bathroom. She calls for me, letting me know, “Mommy, I have to go potty”, to which I reply, “Okay, go to the bathroom.” To her credit, she did make it to the actual bathroom. I’m pretty sure she kept one eye on the TV as she walked over there. After a few minutes, when I didn’t hear the toilet flush, I found her standing in the bathroom, door wide open and her soggy pants down around her ankles. She wasn’t the least bit perturbed. She was looking at something over my shoulder as I peeled off those pee-pee pants. Oh yes, the TV.

In an event, we try to keep the TV to a minimum because the girls have lots of toys, we do arts & craps (when I feel strong enough), we do playdates and basically because I know the TV is my ace-in-the-hole when I need 30 uninterrupted minutes of my own to make a phone call/make dinner/make a mad grab for a cup of coffe with me, myself and I.

Most days, I am the first one up, usually a good hour or so before everyone else. I pull out the laundry and flip on the TV to get caught up on whatever’s in the DVR. Yesterday, was no exception. The day after Christmas means people are going to sleep in, which means, I can still get up early to do some things for me for a little bit. I got up, pounded out 3 miles outside, came in and pulled out the ol‘ laundry buckets. And let me just say for two adults and two children, we produce dirty laundry at an astonishing rate — I’m doing at least 3 loads every other day.

At any rate, the girls come downstairs with their grandma, who sets about getting their breakfast. Santa brought Mo and Co a dollhouse this year, which they busy themselves with in the other room while breakfast is being made. I power on the TV and even over the sound of pots, pans, their Uncle “breathing deeply” on the sofa, Mo is at my side faster than you can say “DVR“.

“Kai washa show? (translation: Can I watch a show?)” she breathes, her eyes affixing themselves to the screen.

“It’s Mommy’s turn to watch a show, and unless you are going to fold some laundry,” I gesture to the two buckets at my feet, “you should go play.”

“Ohhhhhkayyyyy,” she sighs and literally, drops her head to her chest as she trudges out to the room. Walking the green mile back to her toys!

Not even five minutes later, she dashes back into the room, shouting “I have to go potty!” Now the way our family room is set up, the TV is on one wall and the sofa faces the TV set. There is plenty of walking room between the TV and the sofa, as well as behind the sofa. The wall behind the sofa has the door to the laundry room and to the half bath which is where we now find Mo, as she has left the door wide open – again – so that she can keep an eye on the TV.

I am hip to this trick and I turn the TV off, to which her disembodied voice says, “Why did you turn off the TV?”

“So you can use the potty.”

“Mom, I have to tell you something!” Oh boy, this is classic Mo-dizzle stall tactic/pre-face to any defense argument she has ever concocted. “Mom! Mom! Michelle and Karen (her teachers) taught me how to fold laundry in practical life*, so now I can watch TV!”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider handing her the bucket and the remote. Now, if I could just get Co to separate the lights from the darks. . .



*At Mo’s school they do what is called Practical Life activities, which are tasks the child can learn on how to do living activities in a purposeful way. Whenever I ask her what she has done at school on a given day, the top three answers are 1) played, 2) colored and 3) played.
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IN: ON: December 27, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Have You Seen It?

I can’t find my cell phone. Again. I hate how dependent I have become on an electronic device! And the worse part is, my phone isn’t even a state of the art slide-phone with apps and GPS and bells and whistles. I can make calls. I can take calls. I can text. That’s it. Yet, when the phone decides to grow legs and take a personal day, I’m left feeling like I’m missing a limb.
I was 20 when I got my first cell phone. We’re talking 1999, people. I had this Sprint flip phone with a digital display window. Mercifully, it wasn’t the size of my shoe, but it surely wasn’t high on style. It was to be used only in case of emergencies, like when my car broke down on the side of the road or when. . .well, when my car broke down on the side of the road. That’s it. And that was okay. I left it in the charger most times, I took it to and from work with me, but mostly forgot that I had it. Fast forward ten years and while the cell phone model I have is just as antiquated, I count it among the things I have to have when I leave the house. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Cell? Check. I have those three things and I’m good to go. Wait, I’m supposed to have something else. What. . .was. . .it? Wallet, keys, cell. Wallet, keys cell. Oh, the kids! Right.
Anyway, the cell phone has been gone for about 48 hours and I’m starting to worry. It’s not as though I haven’t misplaced my phone before. I lost my phone when we were living in our last apartment. I looked everywhere, I called it from the house phone, nothing. I was worried it had gotten stolen and some yahoo was racking up long distances calls on my nickel. So, I got T-Mobile on the phone and was getting ready to have the whole thing shut off when it occurs to me to ask the sales rep when the last call was made. She gives me the info and I’m puzzled because not only did I make the last call, I know exactly where I was when I made it and what I did when I finished. Cut to the front hall closet, and there, in my jacket pocket, on vibrate (of course), is my phone.
But back to my current predicament. I asked the girls if they’ve seen it, which elicits a “yes” from one and a “no” from the other. I’m not even going to pursue it with them. I ask DH if he’s seen it, to which he replies, “Last time I saw it, you had it.” Thanks, honey.
I channel my inner Sherlock and start re-tracing my steps. Of course, the problem is, if I knew where I had it last, I wouldn’t have to do that, right? So, I just start working my way through the rooms of the house. I check our room, the bathroom, the closets, the girls rooms, the guest room, the other bathroom. I head downstairs, and I ransack the laundry room, the kitchen, the living room, and the family room. In the family room, I upend all of the cushions in the sofas and find the following:
1. several popcorn kernels
2. half of a princess tiara
3. 28 cents
4. two pencils
5. a Netflix envelope with no DVD (whew!)
6. a Barbie brush
7. a Barbie shoe
8. a Valentine’s Day sticker
9. 1 broken potato chip
10. my lovely disposition (I was wondering where that had wandered off to)
I go back upstairs and go through my pocketbooks, even the ones I’ve forgotten I own. I look in my gym bag, I look in shoe boxes. I go back downstairs and look in the pockets of all of my coats (again), even the ones I know I haven’t worn in the past 6 months. I even open a package I had wrapped for the UPS guy hoping that maybe I boxed it up by mistake.
No phone.
I call the phone. I mean, I call it using the house phone, though I’m getting to the point where I’m not above calling out to it, “Phone! Phone, you better answer me when I’m talking to you!” Clearly, this is driving me crazy.
I’m thinking about where I had it last. What was I planning to do? Charge it. So it’s probably somewhere without power. Great. Okay, but where was I going? DH and I were going out of town and I planned to charge the phone when we got to our hotel. But the thing is, I realized on the way out of town that I had forgotten the phone. Ugh, I’m just going down one dead end after another. I figure that I’m take a zen approach and stop looking for it. The phone will come to me. Yeah, that lasted all of an hour.
I got up this morning and started going through the house all over again.
My last resort was to check my car. Again. It’s early, about 5:15 am and I look like Zippity-Do-Dah in my pajamas/sweats and winter coat as I head outside. Turns out we forgot to re-arrange the car seats from DH’s car back to mine, so I figure, I’ll handle that before I look for the phone. I unlock his car on the passenger side and something tells me to stick my hand in that little catch-all pocket affixed to the door.
Sonofa–
I’m getting a leash and a bell for this flippin‘ thing.

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IN: ON: December 14, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Birthday Party Regulars

The girls have been invited to a slew of birthday parties as of late. They’re invited to parties for children in their respective classes from school and invited to parties from neighborhood kids and other kids we know. We’ve been to parties at Chuck E. Cheese’s and we’ve been to parties at Inflatation Nation, Kangaroo Jacks and The Jumping Monkey. We’ve been to parties at the Botanical Gardens, parties at the Zoo, parties at Tidewater Gymnastics Academy and parties at J.W. Tumbles. And let me just say that this J.W. Tumbles place is pretty popular with the 5 and under set. The girls were invited to two parties at the same J.W. Tumbles on the same day one right after the other. Whew!

In a previous life, I tried my hand at wedding planning and these kiddie parties are starting to make receptions look like Kool-Aid and Chex Mix served on Chinet. One party Mo was invited to was held in an event space that used to be a restaurant. It was a carnival theme party complete with a face painter, a balloon artist, an inflatable jump house, a popcorn machine, a cotton candy machine, and rows of carnival games. There was pizza made to order along with other fair food and an open bar for the parents. And did I mention the birthday boy was turning 5. FIVE.

Of course with all of these parties comes the purchasing of a gift for the birthday boy or girl. I have never been good at figuring out what kind of gift to give. I mean, yes, I have children of my own, but their likes and dislikes change from minute to minute. So what do you do for someone else’s child? Do you get something educational like books or other learning “toys” that the child will probably pull out of the wrapping paper and toss over their shoulder while saying, “Next!”
Do you go for a coloring book and crayons? Clothes? Maybe take a cue from the cartoon character on the invitation and go for something from the extensive options that Thomas the Tank Engine/Strawberry Shortcake/Spongebob/Dora/The Disney Princesses or Pirates of the Caribbean have to offer?
Do you go for a gift card to Toys R Us or Target and let the child pick their poison present? Lately, we’ve been giving Coldstone Gift Cards as presents, but sometimes I feel conspicuously empty handed when we arrive at a party and simply hand over a card in the midst of brightly wrapped packages and gift bags. At the last party we went to, the birthday girl and a few of her minions came charging out of the front door when we arrived. Mo handed the birthday girl the envelope with the card and said “Happy Birthday”. Minion #1 said, eyeing the envelope suspiciously, “Wait, where’s the gift? Didn’t you bring a gift?” Minion #2 said, “It’s her birthday, you have to give her a gift!”
Look, we didn’t just get off the Goodship Lollipop; I know how this whole birthday thing works. I don’t do rude and was about to give her lil’ buns a lesson in respect, but DH had a hand on my shoulder to steer me away before it got ugly. Besides, they were like six and seven years old and I wasn’t really trying to bring home a lawsuit in our goody bag.
But back to gift selection. Do you get the child something obnoxious and loud that you would never allow in your own home? DH took Co to a birthday party last week-end and the child opened their presents at the party (not a fan of that, but whatever). So the birthday boy opens some blinking, beeping, whirring and clanging toy, and his mother says –out loud, in front of everyone — “Oh, how nice. I think we’ll give that to the school!”
WOW.
Anyway, we have yet another party to attend today. Somehow I managed to wait until the last minute to get a gift for the party, so I had Mo and Co with me when I went to pick one out for the birthday girl. We’re good friends with the birthday girl and her family, and yet, I couldn’t think of anything that she didn’t already have. I wanted to fall back on my gift card option, but I had mentioned how I’d been using that as my go-to gift when her mom asked me for some ideas when they had a party to attend.
So, we’re wheeling around Target and hit the toy aisles. Mo and Co are begging me to slow down so they can peruse the merchandise and longingly trail their fingers along the shelf’s edge. We pass a Dora the Explorer display and I pick up one of the dolls to examine it. I ask Mo if remembers whether or not the birthday girl likes Dora.
“Oh, yeah. She likes Dora.” Mo volunteers. “She likes Dora as the mermaid!”
From the back of the cart, Co pipes up, “I like Doe-wa. I like Doe-wa.” I seem to remember that the birthday girl does like Dora, but she may have this particular doll already. I explain as much to Mo.
“Well,” she says, “Why don’t you let me hold onto that Dora while you look for something else?” She’s a smart one, that Mo-dizzle.
We look at everything from LeapFrog Learning Pads to The Littlest Pet Shop and everything in between. With every step, I hear “What about this? Why don’t you let me look at it while you keep walking?” from Mo, and “I like Kai-Lan. I like Ponies. I like Abby Cadabby. I like Wonder Pets.” from Co.
Suffice it to say, a gift was purchased, wrapped and ribboned. Mo and Co have totally bypassed Christmas lists and are working on their first drafts of next year’s birthday wish lists. Oh, and they’ve already decided they each want a themed party — Cinderella/Sleeping Beauty Party for Mo (quelle surprise) and Ariel Party for Co. I wonder if I can rent out the Scope.
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IN: ON: December 5, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Yes, I should be studying, but this is short and I miss you guys!
So we are driving to school the other day listening to the radio. “The Way You Make Me Feel”, by Michael Jackson comes on and we’re just bopping along. From the backseat, Co says, “Why Michael Jackson fall down?”
Ummm. . .is this a joke that you just made up or am I missing something?
“Why Michael Jackson fall down?” she asks again as we continue snapping our fingers, rolling on down the street. I turn to Mo as we glide to a stop light. “What is she saying?” I ask my little translator.
Mo rolls her eyes so far up into her head, I’m sure she can see where the two halves of her brain come together. “Michael Jackson didn’t fall down,” says Mo. “He just likes to say, ‘Ow!’ a lot.”
Out of the mouth of babes I tell you.

I didn’t count exactly how many times he says “Ow”, but I’m sure it’s up there. I’ll save that for the next study break!

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IN: ON: October 11, 2009 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Hello, My Name Is. . .

So, I was reminded today of a joke I heard once. A little girl who wandering by herself through the cosmetics department at the mall. She kept pointing to a large display and say, “That’s my name, that’s my name, that’s my name.” None of the department store associates could understand what she was doing and it became obvious to them that she had been separate from her mother. One associate went up to the girl to ask her if she was lost and what her name was. Her mother rushes over from another counter and says, “Clinque! Get over here!”

And what could have made me think of that joke? I was putting in my study time, going over the anatomy of the female reproductive system and thought, “How messed up would it be if your name was Labia?” That got me to laughing.

Then I got to thinking about this game DH,my brother-in-law (BIL), and our parents played one night called, “What’s the Worst Name You Ever Heard?”. We all know about the mom who named her kid Female thinking that is was pronounced Fe-mah-lay and about the mom with the twins named Lemonjello and Organejello (uh, that would be Lemon Jell-O and Orange Jell-O).

What about the parents that insist of doing a mash up of there names? Sometimes it works, but sometimes you get some doozies! You know, Dad is Wade, Mom is Maxine, so the daughter is . . . .Wadine?

DH had the pleasure of meeting a friend of a colleague whose name was (or actually still is) Lasagna. Seriously. He talked to her over the phone first and when she said Lasagna, he was certain he had misheard her. He offered up LaTanya and LaJuana but she stopped him and said, “No. Lasagna. Like the food. ” Wow. A friend of ours had a niece whose name was Jodeci, yes like the R&B group. The friend went on to say that the mom named the baby based on the group that to which the child was conceived. Two words on that one: Over – Share. We went around the table laughing until we cried until my BIL said a friend of his worked in a school where there were a set of siblings whose names were (drumroll, please) YaRoyalty, YaHighness and YaMajesty.

SHUT. THE. HELL. UP

Seriously. Can you imagine? You’re in class and the PA (that’s the public address for you youngin’s) comes on telling YaRoyalty to come to the office. Even worse, pretend you’re a substitute teacher taking roll and YaMajesty is in your class. All I can think of is what do you say when that child raises his or her hand? Yes, YaMajesty? Should I curtsey, too?

So, I’m putting my foot down in protest of these cracked-out names. Never should there be a Labia running around, or pretty much any child named after a body part. VaGina is still vagina, I don’t care what you say. Be proud of your country, and express your political affiliation, but if you name your child Obamaisha. . .well, all I’m going to say is — No, You Can’t. No names found in an ABC store — yes, I’m talking to you who is considering naming your twins Chardonnay and Tanqueray. When I was in college one of the RAs did this presentation about STDs and how to keep ourselves safe. The brochure she handed out was called “Chlamydia is not a flower” — yeah, it’s not a first name either.

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IN: ON: April 24, 2009 TAGS: BY: Hilary
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