Actual Times May Vary

Temporary Leave

2013-04-11T08:48:00.000-07:00

Due to an ongoing medical issue in my family that's consuming a great deal of my time this Spring, I need to take a temporary leave from updating my blog. I hope to return soon, but of course, the actual time may vary ;)

Wow, Blog Is 1 Year Old Today...Although Not Technically

2013-03-01T14:22:00.001-08:00

On February 29, 2012, I'm not exactly sure what made me think, "What better day to launch a blog about time-related issues than on Leap Day?" It probably had something to do with it being 2:00am...also known as The Time of Day When I Make Most of My 'Brilliant' Decisions.

As if you needed further proof that a lack of sleep induces delirium.

It also makes today my first Blogiversary....although technically, today is March 1, and my blog won't technically celebrate its first official Blogiversary until the next time there's a February 29....which will be in 2016. I'm good at procrastinating like that. I also apparently suck at adhering to technicalities.

Actually, if we want to get super technical (and who wouldn't?), while I published my very first post that day....technically, nobody read it. Well, except for my husband and older kids...because they value the food services I provide in this household and are easy to manipulate with snacks.

Alas, back on February 29, 2012, I wasn't ready to share the blog with the world yet. I played around, wrote a few more posts, over-thought everything, obsessed over stupid details and panicked. It really wasn't until April that I attempted to spread the word. Does that make April technically the Blogiversary? Possibly. I never realized how much calculating was involved in counting all the way to one.

To be honest, I wasn't sure how to acknowledge or celebrate said Blogiversary anyway. What's the protocol? I didn't think crepe paper streamers and confetti were appropriate. I'd considered buying the blog a gift......but it's at that toddler age, so it'd probably only be interested in playing with the box. And I just knew it'd give me attitude if asked to wear one of those ridiculous party hats.

So I did what any other normal person would do in this situation: I drew a picture of myself drawing a picture of my blog on a chalkboard with a goofy cake doodle and balloon. Because nobody knows how to party like one Christie Storms (keep straight face, keep straight face...)

In all seriousness, I do want to thank anyone and everyone who has ever read or plans to continue to read this stuff. Hearing from you is my absolute favorite part of this gig. You have no idea how much your interactions make my day. I especially love when we get a banter going back and forth. You crack me up!

I hope you'll continue to reach out to me...and if you haven't already, please do say hi. There are so many ways we can hang out:

Leave a comment here on any blog post, and I'll be sure to respond. You can also click HERE and "Like" the Actual Times May Vary facebook page to receive updates and join in the conversation. Talk with me on Twitter (@ChristieStorms), where I have to challenge myself regularly to keep my usual superfluous rambling under 140 characters. Or send me an email at ChristieStorms{at}gmail{dot}com. You can even have each shiny new blog post delivered directly to your Inbox by clicking the "Subscribe by Email" envelope icon toward the upper right corner of the screen.

Thanks again for reading. If it's one thing I've learned writing and managing this blog, it's that time is precious and fleeting. The fact you choose to spend any increment of your own time here will keep me smiling all the way to Leap Day 2016....when the Blog turns 1 for real.

Surviving the Boring Parts of the Oscars

2013-02-22T08:47:00.000-08:00

I'm a sucker for a good awards show: the stars, the gowns, the jewels, the list of this year's nominated films of which I've seen approximately none so far...

While I'm hopeful host Seth MacFarlane will bring plenty of funny to keep us all engaged, historically-speaking, you can bet there will be many Zone-Out-Worthy moments to this annual Hollywood spectacle. Because even Meryl Streep wouldn't be able to act interested for that many hours of watching overinflated egos congratulate one another.

Lest we all fall asleep and miss the one part where something noteworthy happens, here's ways to keep the mind active during the following:

RIDICULOUSLY LONG ACCEPTANCE SPEECHES

Go ahead and compose your own acceptance speech in your head. Picture yourself up on that stage accepting accolades and how you would handle it way better than these people. Aim for funny but sincere. Avoid anything involving political rants, declaring you're king or queen of the world, startling the presenter with a dramatic kiss, and scattered, rambling revelations about sexual preferences. Yeah, so pretty much any of the other speeches you've ever heard on any award show.

Ponder whether it would be better to hit the ground running by thanking your husband first vs. saving him for "last, but most importantly." Or should that spot be reserved for the dog? After all, the dog does seem a little more excited to see you when you get home than your husband does. However, the dog is not of much use in the Taking Out the Trash or Chauffeuring the Car Pool Department.
Decisions, decisions.

THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF ACCOUNTANTS
Like we give a crap which firm of Adam Up and Cecile N. Briefcase tabulated the results. This is a good time to google movie terminology you may have always wondered about. Like, what exactly is a "gaffer?" How about a "key grip?" What makes him so critical to film-making, what makes him different from a regular grip, and just how many freakin' grips are needed per film?

If you have extra time, see if you can find out why there isn't there a Best Award for Best Boy. You mean to tell me there isn't a Best Boy who is the absolute best at being Best Boy? He should totally be acknowledged on stage. And it's 2013, yet we're still labeling by gender? A female can apparently be the Best Boy on a film crew, yet there is no official title of Best Girl. Does the union know about this? What happened to the ERA?

IN MEMORIAM

Don't get me wrong, some of this is good TV. You might find yourself lamenting, "Oh, the inimitable Nora Ephron...such a loss," but you'll probably spend the rest of the time saying things like, "No! He died? When?" or "Wait, I thought she already died about five years ago" followed by a lot of "Who is that?" and "What movie was she from?" Keep a tally and have fun comparing it to the number of old-timers you see walk onto the stage later in the broadcast....whereas you conversely find yourself saying, "Whoa, he's still alive? He's gotta be about 120."

MUSICAL/DANCE NUMBERS
Rarely Oscar's finest moment. Use this time to focus on what you would wear, you know, for the year that you are ~~nominated~~ ~~invited~~ er, not watching at home in your pajamas. Would you go with simple, elegant, and classic black? Hmm, black can sometimes kind of wash you out to the point of looking vampire-like though. Maybe a muted neutral?

Reflect upon which gowns you saw during the pre-show arrivals that you might be able to pull off.........You know, if you had a boob lift. Plus lots of Botox. And a personal trainer. And you actually had the energy to do what the personal trainer said daily. Then vow to devote the rest of the year to concentrating on how to walk gracefully in those ridiculously high heels...with emphasis on the elusive gracefully.

If all else fails and you do find yourself bored out of your mind during the telecast, maybe nodding off wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. The Oscar statuette appears to have his eyes closed anyway. Even he couldn't stay awake.

Actual Length of Oscar Telecast: supposedly 3 hours...hahaha haaaaaaa
Actual Length of Boring Parts: 2 hours and 57 mins
Real Feel: 8 hours, especially if you watched the Red Carpet coverage
Chance We'll Tune in Next Year Despite Boring Parts: 100%

HOW ABOUT YOU? Do you plan to watch the Oscars?

If the Super Bowl Were a Romantic Comedy

2013-01-31T16:15:00.000-08:00

It's Super Bowl week. Time to start feigning interest in football. It seems no matter how many times my husband and sons have explained the game to me (usually once annually, on Super Bowl Sunday), I just can't get into it.

I recently realized why:

There is basically no tangible relationship between the pigskin and the guy carrying it. Sure there's motive to bring it to the end zone and score your team a ring. The lure of jewelry, I totally get.

But where's the backstory that draws me in and compels me to keep watching? The witty repartee laced with sexual tension? The protagonist's inner demons that need to be battled? It coincidentally does not take place in a circa 1960's advertising agency where everyone broods, drinks and wears fabulous clothes. This alone could be a major contributor to the problem.

Yes, I know it's insane to think the Super Bowl could play like an episode of a TV drama like Mad Men. I mean, hello.....It's obviously got much more of a romantic comedy vibe. After all, the agony on the players' faces must have a cause. Who's to say it's not unrequited love? And have you seen what these guys wear and how ridiculous grown men look all piled up on top of one another? Comedic gold.

The viewing experience would be vastly improved by simply illustrating the relationship between man and football. These proposed tweaks would make me actually want to see what happens next during the game...Are you listening, CBS?

Picture this:
A quarterback and a football leave college to drive all night, bickering and bantering their way from Chicago to New Yor---er, I mean, New Orleans. The quarterback points out how he and the football can never truly be friends because their underlying attraction for each other will get in the way...a fact that will be driven home when the football fakes an orgasm at a roadside diner near the 50 yard line. The two part ways to head into separate locker rooms, and I'm glued to the edge of my seat because I just know they're meant to be together.

Close to midnight on Super Bowl Eve, the quarterback finally admits he's been in love with the football all along. He swoops her up and carries her an unstoppable 90 yards to the end zone, pushing all others out of his way...because when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, he wanted the rest of his life to start as soon as possible. The marching band plays "Auld Lang Syne" as they score the winning touchdown together. Afterwards, the quarterback says he'd like a coconut Vince Lombardi Trophy cake...with the chocolate sauce on the side.

All right, I'll admit part of that just isn't plausible. I mean, when do marching bands ever play "Auld Lang Syne" during the Super Bowl, right? Maybe Madonna was busy. Work with me here.

How about this? The football and the wide receiver have been fighting their attraction for a long time due to his emotional immaturity. When the quarterback throws the pass, the wide receiver leaps high into the air to catch the football. As the two tumble to the ground together, the football says, "You complete me." Later, in front of all the cheerleaders, the wide receiver explains the football simply had him at "hello."

C'mon, that could be the first Super Bowl in history where you'd need tissues. Hear that, Kleenex? Potential sponsor opportunities! You're welcome.

Still not convinced of the Super Bowl's romantic comedy potential? Okay, final suggestion:

A linebacker feels hurt and abandoned by his beloved football. Enraged, he charges the other team, being careful to avoid the quicksand, fire swamp and Rodents of Unusual Size. He tackles the six-fingered quarterback, and as the football rolls down the synthetic turf, the linebacker hears her cry out "....as....you....wish...." The linebacker realizes the football never really stopped loving him and had merely been forced to play a scrimmage with the Dread Pirate Roberts.

Tell me you wouldn't turn in for such blockbuster Super Bowl plots as these proven winners. I can't believe Hollywood has yet to call upon me for my screenwriting skills.

But something tells me the networks won't go for it. I've heard those R.O.U.S. are ruthless when it comes to salary negotiations, and the Super Bowl is certainly no place to throw billions of dollars around.

Guess I'll just have to resign myself that the only declaration of undying love during this Super Bowl Sunday is going to be mine...for the nacho platter.

Actual Length of Super Bowl: 4 hours...give or take eleventy-billion hours of pre/post-game commentary
Real Feel: 36 hours
Real Feel If Super Bowl Were a Romantic Comedy: 30 minutes, tops
Chance They Will Change It into a Romantic Comedy: There's always 2014

HOW ABOUT YOU? Which do you prefer...the Super Bowl or a romantic comedy?

Please Stop Asking Me What's for Dinner

2013-01-22T18:01:00.000-08:00

Family of mine, I love you more than you could ever comprehend, but please, I beg of you, stop badgering me about what's for dinner. It's not that I mind your inquisitive nature. It's the eye-rolling and petitioning for alternative dining choices that aren't working for me.

Yes, I wholeheartedly welcomed you kids into this world with a promise to nourish your heart, mind and body. I'm more than cool with the heart and mind thing, but I have to tell you....the constant procuring of healthy nutrients to feed your growing bodies on demand has gotten quite exhausting.

Here's a tip: if I'm still cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I am not, in any way, shape or form, ready to address the dinner issue. You couldn't possibly be hungry again already, so I can only assume you're simply preparing notes for the I Hate Broccoli Tantrum you've scheduled later that afternoon.

I'll let you in on a little secret. Sometimes when you ask me what's for dinner.....I honestly don't know yet! It's not like I have an inexhaustible source from which I can pull creative meal plans to begin with, and I'm horrible under pressure. As you may have noticed. Repeatedly.

And let's be honest. No matter what I finally do make for dinner, at least one of you will be unhappy. One of you might cry or flat out refuse to eat. One of you will bemoan that I always make that, and you're sick of it.

Secret #2: I'm probably sick of it, too! But if has some protein, some fiber and/or vegetables, and it's relatively quick to prepare around all your sports and activities, yes, you are going to see it again.

To be clear, I am not, nor will I ever be, a short order cook. I can barely get it together to prepare ONE meal for the group. There's a lot of pressure to make something healthy and enjoyable for all...and it often proves impossible.

Here's another confession: I don't live to make dinner. In the same way you don't like when I interrupt your video games, I detest having to stop the 40 other tasks I'm doing to cook...especially when it seems like you all just ate 5 minutes ago. (And PS: I don't really get a kick out of packing school lunches either).

Of course, we've watched Rachael Ray and others who make cooking look fun. What's not to love about each ingredient pre-chopped into its own coordinated mini-bowl?

Except no one puts things into neat little bowls for me at our house. Where do they even buy those mini-bowls anyway? Is there a mini-bowl store solely in business to supply cooking shows with a way to avoid adding ingredients from...gasp!...the container from which they were bought? Oh, that's right. They don't actually buy food. They grow it in their organic gardens...with all the free time they have while others are organizing things into neat little bowls for them.

I know you enjoy when I make dishes like homemade lasagna for the holidays. I've even cut out new recipes that look appetizing. Except these all require two things I do NOT have most days: time and energy.

Because what cheerful Rachael doesn't say, cheerfully, is that her 15-minute meals still require a good 20 mins prep followed by 40 minutes of clean up. The last time I checked, 20+15+40 would make it a 75-minute meal, dear cheerful Rachael. And I'm known as quite the math expert in these parts (cough, cough).

I've also heard it'd supposedly be easier if I planned our meals in advance. I do try. I may have even procured all necessary ingredients for a balanced meal and scheduled it for Monday. Then one of your coaches sets a make-up game. During the three-hour dinner-time window on Monday. (Calmly pick up imaginary pistol, aim and shoot plans to Hell).

Ergo, you see me repeatedly opening and slamming cabinet doors as if doing so will magically make ingredients for a healthy yet delicious quickie meal appear.

And it's not that I don't value your frequent suggestions for fast food. Contrary to popular belief, I do enjoy a burger and fries. I do love how the clean-up would only involve tossing wrappers into the trash. But I also value other things like our hearts and arteries, and the possibility of living to an old age. I can't, in good conscience, let you have utter junk as often as you'd like. I also can't ban certain healthy vegetables or meats from ever appearing, so stop asking.

It may not seem like it, but I put a lot of time and effort into shopping for and preparing your meals....Often only to have them consumed, complained about and completely unappreciated in ten minutes or less. Not a fun glow to bask in while you all go relax, and I'm stuck cleaning up.

Look, as a mom, I accept that "so much effort, so little reward" comes with the territory. Let's just try to keep dinner from feeling like "ridiculous amount of effort and a public stoning," okay?

So that's why when you ask me what's for dinner for the eleventh time on any given day, I may seem a little cranky. I know my obligation to make dinner. And I do truly want to nourish you. But from now on, can we just assume that at some point it will be dinner time, and at that point, I will put some form of decent --albeit possibly uninspired-- nutrients on the table for your consumption?

Let's just leave it at that and the world will be a much more peaceful place for all six of us. Well, seven, if you include the dog (who has, ahem, yet to ever complain about anything I've ever fed him.....just sayin').

Actual Time Spent Preparing Dinner: at least 1 hour daily
Average Time Spent Eating Dinner: 15 minutes
Actual Time Spent Dealing with Kids' Dinner Complaints: 30-60 mins daily
Real Feel: the movie Groundhog Day sums it up nicely

HOW ABOUT YOU? Do you sometimes find cooking dinner a thankless chore?

The Post-Holiday Newton Factor

2013-01-11T10:07:00.000-08:00

Every January, I feel nothing but contempt for Sir Isaac Newton. If he hadn't started with all his theories about gravity, I wouldn't be elbow-deep in dozens of boxes and containers of Christmas decorations. But he just had to insist on the whole "what goes up must come down" thing. Now I can't leave my Christmas tree up until July nor sit back and relax on the couch until every item is packed. Thanks a lot, Newton. (But please do give my warm regards to your brother Fig).

Why does putting the holiday decorations away have to be so depressing...other than the obvious fact it's a inordinate amount of work and feels like you just finished putting all the crap up two days ago? First of all, there's no endearing term for taking down the tree. When you put it up, you get to "trim" it. Cue the music for trimming the tree! Fa la la la la and all that.

Okay, you could still listen to music now, and sure, you can string a different set of words together that start with "f" (and often do), but where's the music specifically designated for yanking down the stockings and disassembling evergreen boughs? Where are Johnny Mathis and Michael Buble when you're winding endless yards of wooden cranberries around a warped piece of corrugated cardboard? Probably hiding from their wives, who've already asked them seven times to lug the holiday storage bins down from the attic.

Without holiday music, the same objects that brought you joy a month ago now bring you anguish. In early December, that Partridge in a Pear Tree ornament your 12 year-old son had painted back in kindergarten made you smile. Now as you encase it in plastic bubble wrap and try in vain to cram it inside a container three sizes too small, you can't help but note how quickly yet another Christmas has passed. The kids are a year older and let's face it: another year closer to moving out, leading their own independent lives, and forgetting all about you....which, coincidentally, places you one year closer to debilitating illness, despair and death. Happy freakin' new year.

This prompts a bunch of promises to yourself in attempt to prevent this inevitable downward spiral. Next year, I'm not putting so many things up! Next year, I'm going to enjoy the holidays more and stress out less! Next year, I'm going to get all new containers specifically designed to store things in an easy, organized fashion instead of all this chaos.

This often just means you're not only depressed, but a liar, too.

Then there's that whole disorienting brain fog that accompanies wandering around your newly undecorated house. It feels naked and empty. Plus, you'd gotten so used to racing around at 100 MPH on very little sleep before Christmas, you forget what your "normal" non-holiday routine was like. You may ask yourself things like, didn't I used to have a blog or something? Didn't I used to update that sucker at least once a week?

This may also erroneously cause you to believe that you could take on overly ambitious tasks to fill all the time that was just freed up. DO NOT FALL FOR THIS. You do not actually have any more time now than you did back in pre-holiday October. It's all a time management mirage. (It's also no coincidence HGTV rolls out its new season of home improvement shows around now. But please do not take a sledgehammer to your kitchen cabinets, I beg you).

What you actually have in front of you is an immense amount of deep cleaning and catch up on all that got neglected in the holiday haze. Remember that corner you couldn't really access for six weeks because there was a 7-foot illuminated spruce blocking the way? Well, the cobwebs are waiting for you now. And they're extra disgusting.

Plus, you have to find a home for the 2,673 toys your kids received over the holidays. And now that they're back at school, they'll be assigned multiple long-term winter projects and reports for which they'll need your assistance, and you'll have to resume navigating their sports and activity schedules, remember?

See? More time on your hands = mirage.

Your only true solace is the sense of superiority you'll feel when holiday clean-up is complete. Go ahead and drive around judging all the neighbors who have yet to take their decorations down. I mean, really, what is wrong with these people? It's January for crying out loud.

They don't have to know you secretly envy that they're enjoying the magic of Christmas for a little while longer.

Actual Time Spent Un-Decorating: 48 hours

Real Feel: 1 week

Chance You'll Remember Where You Put All Items Next Christmas: 1 in 5

Number of Xmas Cookies/Chocolates Consumed While Un-Decorating: 274

HOW ABOUT YOU? What's your least favorite part of disassembling Christmas?

Spreading the Yuletide Blame

2012-12-11T08:53:00.000-08:00

Remember how you vowed to take time to relax and enjoy Christmas and not get swept up in a flurry of holiday-related chaos? Yet there are only 13 days until Christmas, and you're even more behind on seasonal tasks than usual. Again. How did this happen? Where did all the time you were supposed to spend basking in the holiday glow disappear to, and more importantly:

WHO CAN YOU BLAME?

After all, it certainly couldn't be your fault or in any way related to your hyper, overachieving, perfectionistic tendencies. Therefore, the Fa La La La La Fault Baton must be passed along to the following:

SANTA'S REINDEER

How could anyone even think of blaming these sweet, innocent creatures? Well, apparently they're demanding little suckers, because every single time you bring your kids to see Santa, he's out feeding those freakin' deer again. You then have to kill an hour at the mall with cranky kids in tow...and simultaneously keep all of them from messing up their outfits/hair/dispositions. You also better get back soon enough to wait on the line that's already forming....lest it get cut off again while he feeds his flying antelope wannabes.

And where the hell are the elves at reindeer-feeding time? Santa employs their services for the important, complicated stuff, like building an XBox 360 gaming system using only pixie dust and a claymation sledgehammer, but he can't trust them with something as simple as throwing a few magic acorns into Blitzen's bowl? No, for this, Santa must bolt, leaving behind a line of sweaty, overtired ~~parents~~ children indefinitely.

And precisely how much food does a reindeer need to consume per day anyway? They're not exactly robust animals. I mean, if Santa were actually feeding them every single time the sign says he is, they would be too fat to walk, nevermind fly. And let's face it: Vixen's so skinny, she probably lives solely on Diet Coke. She's not fooling anyone.

CYBER SHOPPING

Sure, it's supposed to SAVE you time in theory, but it really does just the opposite. You can now waste precious hours surfing between different sites for the best prices and finding coupon codes for Free Shipping. And then once you finally commit to your purchases, you have to type in your personal information 50,000 times. Plus, there's always a code or form that won't submit properly, forcing you to call the company, face a torturous voice mail menu and deal with an infuriating customer service representative.

Then when your order ships, you are absolutely compelled to track it. Instead of attending to your pending Christmas tasks, you fret over why your package seemed to be moving state-to-state on a daily basis, yet has spent the past three evenings stalled in Obscure Town, Kentucky.

And, heaven forbid it's either damaged or they sent the wrong item. Then you have to fill out the form, repackage and return it, and order a replacement that will still arrive before Christmas.

Which you will also feel compelled to track.

WHOEVER WROTE THE "CHRISTMAS SHOES" SONG

Oh. My. Elfin'. Boot. There is no escaping this freakin' song about the kid who is desperate to buy shoes for his dying mother so she can "look beautiful when she meets Jesus tonight." How does this qualify as a Christmas carol? It does not spread joy. It does not in any way involve holiday cheer. Just because a song has the word "Christmas" in it, does not mean it's airplay-worthy.

We won't even get into the logistics of who the heck let a young kid out shopping at night without adult supervision. Was he wandering the streets in the dark or did an adult actually drop him off at the store and refuse to accompany him inside? Perhaps that's even sadder than the main theme of the song.

This tune incorporates every pathetic, depressing cliche from losing your mother to the kid being poor and dirty to the store closing as he enters. At this time of year, do we really need to be incessantly reminded of every parent's worst fear...dying while our children are young? And then they added the worst part of all:

A kid himself half talks/half sings toward the end, with his whiny, faux-victimized kid voice...some cheesy manufactured interpretation of what the producers think a kid should sound like. (*Insert appropriate tear in his eye and lump in his throat here).

The song assaults you in the car. It's on in the department stores. Even picking up milk isn't safe anymore. How are you supposed to get anything else done when you are thrashing around on the floor covering your ears?

INVENTORS OF SCOTCH TAPE
It doesn't matter how many cool tape dispensers or contraptions 3M comes up with...dealing with tape is a nightmare. The speed with which you need to wrap a gift directly correlates to how swiftly the tape gets stuck to itself on the roll. It sticks to itself with a permanent bond, yet can't manage to hold the two ends of a cardboard box shut without popping up after 3 seconds.

The term "magic" tape is also very misleading. Is it wrapping the present for you by itself? No. When you only need a small piece, you end up either yanking half the roll off or having your piece split into unusable slivers, which you then need to peel off the dispenser one-by-one. Maybe they forgot to include the magic words needed to produce a decent piece of tape on demand.

Sure, they sell dispensers where neat little 2 inch pieces are pre-cut (for double the price). That's also awfully controlling of them, don't you think? How dare they predetermine your tape size needs. There are times you need a long piece and there are times you only want something little. In other words, you should get to be in complete control of ~~everything~~ the tape.

Especially when you run out of wrapping paper at the point where you only had one more inch of the present to cover. Then you have to perform delicate papyrus surgery to try to patch a piece of discarded scrap paper into the naked spot. You worked so hard to align the pattern and everything.....No one will notice you used about 35 pieces of tape for the job, right? Granted, that whole strategic operation took more time than simply starting over with a new sheet of wrapping paper, but somehow you feel like you won.

"Magic" tape indeed. Let's see it make the line to see Santa move more quickly or help the FCC permanently ban "Christmas Shoes" from the airwaves. Now that would be some holiday hocus pocus worth advertising....and you couldn't blame them if they did.

Which, on second thought, could be a problem. Please don't deny me my holiday scapegoats.

Actual Time Spent Preparing for Christmas: 32 days
Real Feel: not long enough to get it all done
Actual Time Spent Relaxing During Christmas Season: 10 minutes (when you nodded off while stuffing greeting cards into envelopes)
Number of Times "Christmas Shoes" Is on the Radio Per Season: 999, 998

How about you? Are you managing to relax this year...or are there even more things/people to blame for your stress?

Hurricane-Induced Hiatus

2012-11-02T05:34:00.001-07:00

In case any of you were wondering what kind of pioneer/colonial times/frontier woman I would have made, the answer is: a very impatient and inept one. But hugs and thanks to Hurricane Sandy for helping me put those skills to the test this week as we continue to live without power, phone, cable, internet, etc...

Granted, I've also spent the time being grateful my home and family are okay as the devastation others suffer at the moment is far worse than my possibly missing a new broadcast of Saturday Night Live tomorrow night.

Alas, I've been unable to access my blog as my phone/cellular connection has been wonky and intermittent, and I also have zero access to any of the posts I'd been working on back in the Good 'Ole Days when we had electricity and a functioning desktop computer.

I'm currently attempting to post this via a local WiFi Hotspot on an iPad app that's supposed to be able to act as an HTML editor in hopes I can at least communicate the reason for my absence. I hope to be back soon.

And also be able to watch TV. How I miss TV.

Actual Time Spent without Power: almost a week and counting...

Real Feel: Four score...because that's how they measured time in colonial days, right?

Chance I Will Learn a Useful New Pioneer Skill Like How to Churn My Own Butter: 0

Chance I May Lose My Sanity If Power Doesn't Return Soon: 99.9%

POLL: Putting Kids to Bed Vs. Up and At 'Em

2012-10-17T11:16:00.002-07:00

Forget trying to figure out which political buffoon will do the country less harm over the next four years....I've got a much more important question in my pursuit of understanding time-wasting phenomena. I'd love your input via the quick, anonymous poll at the end of this post to help me determine:

Which takes longer? Putting kids to bed at night or getting kids ready to leave the house in the morning?

Whether you have a newborn, teenager, or kids any age in between, there's one aspect of parenting that remains constant: They're always hyped up and wide awake when you wish they were asleep...and sleepy and lethargic when you need them to hustle.

As much as you may often wish (and possibly beg the universe) for their bedtime to come sooner, when the actual bedtime hour arrives, you dread the pure chaos involved.

Ironically, you often have to initiate bedtime during the rare few minutes of the day when the kids are actually playing nicely together. You've also just sat down for the first time since their 3:00 school dismissal yourself, and it's so tempting to just wait til the next commercial to deal with the task. And maybe the commercial after that to process how the last one was a Christmas commercial when it's not even Halloween yet.

Then it's as if you announced the Apocalypse is upon your offspring. Suddenly, the same kid who was practically falling asleep on his Wordly Wise workbook an hour ago, is now bouncing from room to room like a pogo-stick hopped up on Red Bull. (Actually you've considered having his toothpaste tested for Red Bull enzymes since having to brush his teeth before bed always seems to set him off...plus, you could really use some around 4 pm when you're dragging).

While you try to corral one kid, everyone else giggles and screams, frenetically racing through the hall. Clothing is flung around and at least one kid streaks by in his underwear. It's as if the amount of children in your home has somehow doubled or tripled (Note to self: Test toothpaste for cloning enzymes as well).

Then the fighting and whining starts. One is grossed out by the other one's toothpaste-spitting aim or lack thereof and refuses to stand anywhere near him. The youngest wants to know why the oldest gets to stay up a little later. Someone inevitably spills florescent blue kid mouthwash on a porous surface.

And they can't just get into bed after brushing their teeth. You have to read stories and answer the accompanying 20 (often unrelated) questions. You must perform other bedtime rituals such as the Pick-'Em-Up-and-Spin-'Em-Around move where you lower one into her bed only to have her get up five seconds later.

Because this is also conveniently the time of day when everyone under 18 becomes forgetful:

"I forgot I had a science poster due tomorrow!"

"I forgot to give you my test to sign!"

"I forgot I can't save this game on my DS unless I finish the entire level first...Just 10 more minutes, c'mon!"

Even after you finally make your way downstairs, one or two are bound to make an appearance. They're apparently capable of navigating the staircase in the dark to find you, yet incapable of simply taking three steps from their bedroom to the bathroom to get their own drink of water.

But just try to get this same crew moving during daylight hours. You hate being that mom who constantly nags, but it's the only way to get them to school before noon.

"Finish your cereal, let's go! Let's go!"

"I swear I'm going to turn that TV off if you don't get those sneakers on right now!"

"I told you to put that in your backpack last night so we wouldn't have this problem. Now go find it, hurry up!"

The difference is that now, the imagined Red Bull enzymes have worn off. The kids are only capable of two speeds: Snail's Pace and Snail on Ambien's Pace.

One kid is a giant lump on the couch and can only move in tiny, half-inch increments by sliding off the edge and sinking onto the ground like a slug. Another son isn't sure where he put his jacket when he took it off yesterday and tells you he's too tired to go look.

You're rushing around and physically pushing them out the door, but they stroll to the car in a painstakingly lackadaisical manner. It's also a favorite time for them to take note of things in the environment and/or ask complex questions.

"Mom, do you see that squirrel over there? Cool! Is that a nut in his mouth? Or maybe an acorn? Squirrels eat both, right, Mom? What kind of nut is that, Mom? Can I go look?"

"Mom, why are some birds blue and some birds red, but no birds around here are purple?"

"Do you think dead squirrels go to heaven if they got hit by a car, Mom? Will I go to heaven? What is heaven?"

The only reply to all of the above that you have time for is, of course, "Get in the car! Get in the car!!! Get in the car!!!!!!!"

Hyped up in the evenings and sedated in the mornings with the only common denominator being brushing their teeth? I'm planning to email the toothpaste companies to get to the bottom of this.

SO WHICH TAKES LONGER AT YOUR HOUSE? Please take the poll. (I had to edit HTML and everything to stick this thing on here...take pity on me). And I'd love to know if your kids' toothpastes seem to have similar side-effects. Maybe I need to switch brands?

NOTE: The Google Poll Widget has been having issues with resetting back to zero (on other sites as well). But as of 10/25, the results said Putting Kids to Bed at Night takes longer.....as it received 64% of the votes compared to Getting Kids Going in the Morning receiving 36%! So, now I have my answer. THANKS to all who voted :)

Which Takes Longer?

Emergency Room - Not Exactly As Advertised

2012-10-10T10:08:00.000-07:00

I guess it was inevitable. When you have three sons playing Little League baseball nonstop from April to November annually, at some point, one of them is going to get whacked by the ball hard enough to end up in the Emergency Room. And then you get to be that panicked mom who rushes down from the bleachers to examine the ginormous purple and red welt engulfing Son #2's eye, now swollen shut.

So, off to the ER we went.

You can imagine my disappointment when it was NOTHING like how TV depicts it. I mean, doesn't the staff ever watch medical dramas? Or at least take a cue on how to behave from hospital-based sitcoms? I think not, because here's what I noticed:

OBSERVATION #1 - HELLO? ANYONE WORK HERE?...ANYONE?...ANYONE?
You know how on TV, when someone barrels through the ER doors with a child in agony, the entire staff scrambles over to assist? Alert! Code Injured Child! Someone page the Chief of Pediatrics! Contact the Baseball-Pummeled-the-Eye Specialists and fly them over from Europe...STAT!

Yeah, no one even looked up when I entered with my wobbly son sporting a throbbing bruiser and giant ice pack. Granted, we fortunately weren't experiencing life-or-death trauma, but could someone at least acknowledge that a bleeding kid has entered the building? With a HEAD injury? Out of desperation, I asked a security officer where I was supposed to go, and he motioned to a desk down the hall.

OBSERVATION #2 - THAT DESK GETS YOU NOWHERE
Me: Excuse me, my son was at bat and took a fastball to the eye!
Desk Employee (not looking up from apparently hypnotic iPhone): Okay.
Me: It's so swollen, and he has a cut in the corner, and the bone underneath looks---
Desk Employee: Have a seat over there. Someone will be with you shortly.

OBSERVATION #3 - 'SHORTLY' WILL BE USED MULTIPLE TIMES TO MEAN AN HOUR OR MORE
Throughout the course of the following SIX hours, we were told someone would be with us shortly after we filled out some forms. If we'd then just relocate to Triage, someone would be with us shortly. After 30 more minutes there, we advanced to the Pediatric Waiting Area. Shortly after that, we'd sit in an exam area for close to an hour. When the doctor finally examined him, he promised the CT Scan people would be down to wheel him to the testing area shortly. After the scan, the results would be back equally as shortly.

One to two hours is apparently the new 'shortly.'

OBSERVATION #4 - THE REASON 'SHORTLY' TAKES SO LONG IS BECAUSE NO ONE HUSTLES AT ALL
On TV, the hospital's a very busy place. Blue scrubs racing through the halls at warp speed! Crash carts and equipment pushed from room to room! Everything is handled with such urgency! It also takes four or five staff members (usually including at least one doctor) working together to whisk a patient's wheeled cot down the crowded corridors.

When a solitary someone finally sauntered in to wheel my son's cot to his CT scan, she wasn't even up for the job. She grunted along at a snail's pace and struggled to make the turns through the doorways. It's a miracle he wasn't injured further during transport.

OBSERVATION #5 - EMPTY CORRIDORS...WHERE THE FRICK IS EVERYONE?
Hospital hallways on TV are like an obstacle course of patients, staff and equipment carts to navigate. But here, I think my son survived the Wheeled to CT Scan Journey because there was NO ONE with whom to collide.

Don't get me wrong...every single bay in the Pediatric ER was filled with fellow sick and injured children. It definitely wasn't a "slow" day. But medical staff? Noticeably absent. Mysteriously not present. When my son started shivering and I poked my head out into the hall, there wasn't a single person to flag down to ask for a blanket.

OBSERVATION #6 - IT'S EERILY QUIET
The last thing a mom needs is an atmosphere so library-like that she's left to contemplate all the horrible life-altering afflictions that can potentially befall her son due to his eye injury. Medical dramas would lead you to believe you'd need earplugs to drown out the incessant intercom pages, the paramedic truck sirens, and most importantly, the doctors' emotional dramas playing out at the nurses' station.

OBSERVATION #7 - COMPLETE LACK OF LOVE TRIANGLES
It appeared none of the doctors and nurses were young and/or cute, nor did they seem to be entangled in any kind of torrid love affairs. No one openly brooded over an unrequited love. Not one doctor pleaded with another to give him just one more chance because he knows he can be the man she needs him to be.

This would've served as a great distraction from my conjuring up horrific images of scratched corneas and detached retinas or potential surgeries for orbital bone fractures and eye muscle entanglement.

But there wasn't a wanton tryst to be found. Inside the supply closet, there was, sadly, nothing but supplies.

Like that blanket for my son I was finally forced to go find by myself.

Actual Time Spent in ER: 6 hours
Real Feel: 30 days
Amount of Time We Had to Wait Just to Be Seen Upon Arrival: 60 minutes
Amount of Time Needed by TV Doctors to Save Multiple Lives, Engage in Obsessive Love Triangles and Simultaneously Volunteer to Help Local Street Kids Get Clean: 60 minutes

How about you? Have you ever been disillusioned by how slow-moving the whole ER process is? They seem to have taken the "urgent" out of "urgent care."

Parking Plague: Road Rage's Lesser-Known Pal

2012-09-26T10:17:00.002-07:00

While I'm not currently stricken with a wicked case of Road Rage, if Parking Plague is an affliction, I might be coming down with something. It's not quite confine-me-to-a-hospital-bed-before-I-drag-my-key-along-someone-else's-car ill. But if we google the symptoms, I'll bet they point to a vast configuration of vehicular-based psychoses.

Now I'm no mathematical genius, but I think you'll concur with the following ratios....or equations....or formulas....or whatever the heck Those Who Get Math would call this:

#Minutes Spent Parking < #Minutes Inside Establishment = Reasonable

#Minutes Spent Parking > #Minutes Inside Establishment = Total Insanity

Consider this typical scenario:

You just want to run into your local Starbucks to pick up a beverage-to-go. You need a good shot of caffeine in order to accomplish 51 other tasks during the whopping two-hour window all your kids are in school. You figure acquiring the coveted traveling cup of warmth will take 10 minutes tops.

Keep in mind the suburb where you live is big on charm, but very small on available parking spaces. Microscopically small. The chances of Lindsay Lohan leading a quiet, law-abiding life small.

After circling both the charming, Norman Rockwell-like block and the completely full, very unNorman Rockwell-like parking lot twice, you see someone, latte in hand, exiting the Starbucks.

You're nice enough to stop and gesture for him to cross in front of you. He nods and continues to his car nearby. You smile and pull up behind him with your handy-dandy blinker blinking....the universal signal for I Want Your Damn Parking Spot.

Then you wait. He opens the driver's side door and ever so carefully sets his precious latte onto the console. Next he's leisurely taking off his jacket. He's strolling to his trunk at a snail's pace to carefully fold and place said jacket in it. Why? No one knows. We'll chalk it up to some kind of small town charm thing.

By this point, you're wishing for an Intensity Lever on your turn signal to make it blink faster, brighter and quite possibly emit a repetitive game show buzzer sound to encourage him to move it along.

You wait some more. He looks at you again. Just to be clear......there is no chance he hasn't seen your vehicle with its blinker or isn't aware of your intentions.

Yet, he then proceeds to grab his latte, lock up his car and walk away carefree, passing the driver's side of your car without acknowledging your existence.

So positively charming.

And by charming, I mean RUDE.

(*Note to Jerk Who Did This to Me Monday: If someone has the blinker on and is obviously waiting for you to vacate your spot, it only requires a nanosecond for you to give some indication of your plans. Staying? Going? A head shake or wave is all it takes. Because if you've made eye contact with me twice AND I've been nice enough to stop to let you cross in front of me, some courtesy on your part is most definitely required.)

Understandably annoyed after dealing with this charming ~~spawn of evil~~ individual, you drive another lap around the parking lot and question whether any drink is worth this aggravation. But you've already wasted this much time, so you'd at least like to get something out of it....and preferably something hot comprised of steamed milk.

You see a spot up ahead...oops, handicapped, that's not going to work. You consider following the mom escorting toddlers and stroller to her car, but because you've actually BEEN that mom escorting toddlers and stroller, you know by the time she packs up all her offspring and belongings, another millennium may have passed.

Of course, you could've parked in Space #41 (your charming town numbers them for payment purposes) if it weren't for That Person. You know, the one who thinks the expensive car is so precious, it doesn't have to obey the painted line parameters. The one who thinks if no one is able to park in the spots next to it, all the better.

Yeah, That Person.

Finally, another spot opens up. By the time you circle around toward it, you can't pull in because two people are chatting by the opened car door. Again, you flip on the blinker to no avail. It appears these fine folks aren't aware they're standing in the only available space for miles and that someone may be waiting to, oh, I don't know, park a vehicle there? Since this is what we in America call a PARKING LOT, right?

After their extended goodbye session complete with air kisses and promises to do lunch, you finally park. And as luck would have it, pretty close to the Starbucks. Convenient, yes?

No....Because you're now required to walk clear across the lot to deposit money into the charming Pay Station. And there's a good chance if you don't have coins, the slot that accepts dollar bills will be broken (because when is it NOT broken?), and you'll be forced to traipse to yet another Pay Station.

It's certainly enough to make you want to skip paying, especially because you only plan to be in Starbucks for 10 minutes anyway. But you know if you did skip, there would surely be a charming parking ticket on your windshield when you return.

Does anyone know when the charming Anger Management classes are offered?
I'm asking for a friend.

Actual Time Spent Parking: 17 minutes
Real Feel: 35 minutes
Time Spent Purchasing Beverage: 8 minutes
# Police Cars Circling Lots Like Ticketing Vultures Hourly: at least 2

# Tickets Given to That Person Parked Outside the Lines: 0

What frustrates you about parking? If enough of us claim illness, maybe they'll start researching a cure. Or at least get it listed on WebMD.

Seriously, Siri...Why Can't You Do This?

2012-09-19T08:57:00.000-07:00

I'm going to take a big chance here and go ahead and assume you might possibly have heard a teeny, ever-so-tiny bit of hype about the release of iPhone 5 last week. Maybe.

And okay, it does have a bigger screen and suped-up iOS, blah, blah, blah... But the fact that zillions flock to purchase this thing sight unseen still baffles me, especially because I might.......sorta.......be one of those people considering it. But that's not the point.

The point is, I'm a bit disappointed in the capabilities of the new iPhone I don't own. In my non-techie opinion, the newest version of its Siri technology hasn't made any great leaps or bounds toward my ultimate goal: getting out of dealing with stuff I don't want to deal with and finally scoring some free time for myself.

It's not like I was hoping for an iPhone that could earn a living, cook dinner or wash, fold and put laundry away. I totally understand physical tasks are a bit too much to ask of a 4.5 inch touchscreen device (fingers crossed though...maybe in iOS 7).

Yes, Siri can look up a phone number for pizza or remind me to pay bills. But how about automatically paying various bills whenever they're due and intuitively knowing how much I want to pay per month, per company, so I don't have to be ~~responsible~~ involved at all? As a matter of fact, how about paying them from Apple's deep pockets? That only seems fair after the $$$$ I've invested in their products over the past decade.

But more than that, I wish Siri could be programmed to answer the infinite number of questions I'm asked daily. Instead of just reporting who, what, where or when........Siri needs to channel some Why-fi abstract reasoning capabilities. Think about how handy it would be for parents assaulted with the typical, tiresome barrage from the younger kids:

Why does he get two cookies when I only got one?

Why are we having stupid vegetables for dinner AGAIN?

Why can't I stay up as late as my friend?

Why don't you like what I drew on the new couch?

When the kids demand explanations (and really, when aren't they demanding them?), why can't Siri be the one to provide answers? And it should work for all types of teen sass, too:

Why do I have to go to this dumb school/sports/family thing?

Why do I have to do my homework?

Why can't I have a normal family?

Why do you insist on trying to control my life?

And then there should be a choice of modes for Siri to use in reply:

In Patient Mode, Siri could provide sincere, thoroughly researched answers. But after seven incessant requests, Siri automatically switches into Because-I-Said-So Mode. And then five consecutive requests after that, she's in Go-to-Your-Room-and-Don't-Come-Out-Until-You-Can-Show-Your-Mother-Some-Respect Mode.

Meanwhile, you relax on the couch and savor the beverage of your choice.

But my proposed new Siri wouldn't just be for parents. Anyone could take advantage of her Excuse Mode, where Siri implements her patented Sorri technology. Late again? Let Siri handle the why with a polite apology and unique, believable excuses.

She could also provide excuses why the house isn't as clean as it should be or why it took you so long to complete a simple task (leaving out the part about the rerun of Friends you got sucked into, of course). Siri could also conjure up 250,000 reasons you could use to decline when ~~pressured~~ asked to take on one more thing.

My new Siri would come in handy when shopping. Just place her behind you in the dressing room, and she'll determine why those particular jeans make your rear look fat when you ask her. It's the weird cut of the pants, right, Siri? Not my daily consumption of chocolate...

For bloggers, she should be able to tell you why your stats suddenly went up or down or why you seem to get new followers on Twitter faster than on Facebook. Most importantly, why someone's blog that, in your opinion, is poorly written, has 157,000 more followers than any of your favorite blogs, not to mention your own.

I'd also like Siri to explain answers to the really important things I've wondered aloud for years:

Why does my hair look almost decent one day, but then absolutely horrific the next when I use the same exact products?

Why when you switch to a new line at the store does the old line suddenly pick up speed?

Why do I get every single red traffic light when I'm in a rush, and all green lights when I wish I could stop to quickly take care of something?

Which brings us to my proposed WTF Mode. At any given point you can complain to Siri and ask, WTF? She will then file a complaint to the Fates controlling the universe on your behalf. Tap again, and she'll additionally boost your confidence and praise how truly amazing you are as needed. Hmmm, it might also be useful if Siri could lie on command.

I hope you're listening, Apple, because I know you can do better than the iPhone 5.
Get on this.

Autumn & the Wrongful Imprisonment of Feet

2012-09-11T22:54:00.001-07:00

Here in the Northeast, the temperature recently dropped from the 90's to about 70 with a cool breeze. So of course, people have immediately switched from shorts to jeans and layered up with sweaters faster than you can say 'Autumnal Equinox.' Conversely, when it's early spring and the temperature barely flirts with 70, they race to strip off their jeans and put on their shorts and camisoles. Just to be clear, we're talking about the Same. Exact. Temperature.

Alas, cool weather is indeed imminent, and with it comes the worst inevitable consequence:

Goodbye, sandals. Hello, closed shoes.

"Noooooooooooooo!" your trapped toes cry the first time you squeeze them into a ballet flat.

"I thought we agreed: Flip-flops forever!" your betrayed bunions bemoan.

"Is prison really our only option?" your horrified heels howl.

"Enough with the excessive alliteration already!" your former high school English teacher pleads (because you fear somehow, somewhere, she's still judging).

You try on shoes from your closet and realize most are a) borderline worn out; b) in passable shape but no longer really in style; or c) more painful than you remember. So you hobble off to the department store in search of stylish, yet comfortable footwear...the one combination that forever eludes designers.

When you arrive, you must first fend off the multitude of commission-hungry salespeople. You're also greeted by row after row of winter boots, which would be great...if it were actually below 70 outside.

Become distracted by the killer high heel displays. Picture yourself in a pair. You're young, you're carefree, you're wearing a fabulous cocktail dress. Catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You're older, you're tired, you'd never be able to pull it off. Or walk. Or maintain any sort of balance even when standing still.

Tell yet another overeager store employee you're just looking. Dismiss shoe after shoe as too trendy, too impractical, too expensive.

Become convinced this store carries nothing for you..........until you see them in the corner of your eye. The color! The supple leather! The timeless details with a modern twist! They're exactly what you've been dreaming of this whole first eight seconds of New Shoe Season. And oh my gosh, you even have a coupon that makes them affordable! Oh please, let them be available in your size...

Wild-eyed, search for a salesperson to check the stock. Suddenly, there's no one to be found. There are shoebox-shaped tumbleweeds rolling across the entire department.

When you finally secure some assistance, you can't believe they actually have the shoe in your size and a half-size above! Wonder what good deed you must have done to deserve this rare bounty. Surely one of the two pairs will have to fit.

Your slip your feet into them with trepidation. Please, please work. Please don't rub my bunions. Please don't crowd my toes. Sitting down, it's so far, so good.

But then you stand up. And you attempt walking.

Okay, you admit, they are a tiny bit snug. Your toes are waving protest signs. They're dialing Bono and requesting U2 headline a charity concert on their behalf.

Try on the larger size. They're way too loose.

Oh, but you LOVE these shoes. You were just meant to wear them! Maybe you can slip a heel pad into the larger pair. Nope, forget it. Your foot is flying out the back with every step.

Well, maybe the smaller ones will stretch. Leather stretches, right? You'll just stuff them with rolled socks until they stretch out, that's all. Yes, you'll take them!

On your way to the register you pass that scary display that always freaks you out: The Comfort Zone. The one that screams "I'm a Senior Citizen, and I've Given Up on Style." The shoes you've always sworn you'd never, ever wear, even if and when you turn 90. The shoes that were surely only constructed for nurses on their feet all day. Or nuns.

Little charts show how the shoes are engineered to relieve pressure points, how they support what needs to be supported and massage the rest. With alarm, you notice the slightly misshapen feet in the drawings are a bit similar to your own.

But no, the boxy shapes are just too wide and clunky, and they have those awful "sensible" soles. They're out of the question.

Although...

Although that one pair on the left looks kinda cute in maybe a casual, bohemian kind of way. Plus, there are no stodgy laces or anything like that. You depress the insole with your finger. It's engulfed in about 5 inches of cushioning.

Your tired arches beckon, Just try them on, you know, for curiosity's sake. No one says you have to buy them...

Evil, evil (and quite possibly, fallen) arches.

When the salesperson brings them out, you clutch the box of your slightly snug dream shoes to your heart. Don't worry, you're still coming home with me.

The minute you sink into the comfortable shoes, you swear you have a footgasm. They are heaven. They are walking in heaven's clouds while being supported by billowy soft angel wings. Your knees grow weak from intoxication. Those angels must take really good care of their nuns because damn, these are the most comfortable shoes ever.

But no, you are NOT buying these. You love the other ones. You promised yourself the other ones. You are too young for these!

Wrestle with the guilt of splurging for both pairs. Maybe you could just wear the comfortable ones around the house or to drop the kids off at school. And think of how much more productive you'd be if your feet weren't always bothering you. You'd vacuum more, you swear.

Hmm, but how will you justify the expense to your husband, who has been known to use words like "excessive" when describing the other 452 pairs you already own? Toy with simply hiding them in the closet as he pays little attention to your daily appearance and would probably never be the wiser. Well, until the astronomical bill came. But damn it, you rarely treat yourself. And you have a coupon!

You don't realize these two brands of shoes are listed as exclusions on the back of the coupon until after you've already swiped your credit card.

Actual Time Spent Obsessing Over New Shoes: 1 hr., 20 mins.
Real Feel: 15 minutes
How Often You'll Wear the Beloved New Ballerinas: 2.5 times as whenever you attempt it, one of your toes dies a little inside.
How Often You Wear the Comfortable Shoes: Well, not like every single day or anything.

How about you? Have you ever traded a bit of style for comfort? Will your feet miss flip-flop weather as much as my feet will?

Brown-Bagging It with The Breakfast Club

2012-09-04T10:46:00.000-07:00

Allow me to share my most recent epiphany. Remember that opening scene in "The Breakfast Club" where the parents drive up to drop their kids off for Saturday detention? It's obvious that Brian Johnson's mom was quite angry with her straight A student and all-around nice geek of a son when she hissed:

"Is this the first time or the last time we do this?"
"Last."
"Now get in there and use the time to your advantage."
"Mom, we're not supposed to study. We just have to sit there and do nothing."
"Well mister, you figure out a way to study!"

When I was a teen, I thought her seething over the Don't Bring a Flare Gun to School disciplinary action was a little harsh. After all, this was clearly Brian's first offense, and the kid was borderline suicidal. But now that I'm a mom, it finally dawned on me why she was really so enraged:

His Saturday detention meant one more day SHE HAD TO PACK HIS DAMN LUNCH.

One more day where she had to cut the stupid crusts off his PB & J sandwich before wrapping it in plastic. One more day where she had to prepare and heat the soup to fill his stupid Thermos. The Thermos she had to wash Every. Single. Night. Including the time she accidentally let it sit unopened over the weekend and nearly retched from the stench.

And maybe this particular week, she'd been out late on Friday night (most likely at a school-related function, because let's face it, moms don't typically have much of a rockin' night life...especially nerdy moms, not that I would know this firsthand or anything).

Maybe she'd even had a glass or three of wine that night. But instead of being able to climb into bed when she got home, she had to suffer that pit of dread in her stomach: "Brian has to be at freakin' detention for eight hours tomorrow....He needs to bring lunch." An expletive or two was probably also uttered.

And then she was faced with a Sophie's Choice-like decision: drag her exhausted self back down to the kitchen at midnight to prepare it, or wake up at 5 am to pack it before she chauffeured him to his 7:00 AM stint with fellow juvenile delinquents.

No wonder she was ticked.

As if it weren't enough she had just dealt with packing multiple lunches all week. You can tell in the movie's opening scene that Brian's little sister is probably a real pain-in-the-hindquarters and most likely a fussy eater (and what was with the red-striped headband on her forehead.....was 80's style really that bad?).

Each day, I'm sure poor Mrs. Johnson couldn't just take out the PB & J and set up a little sandwich-making assembly line either. Because at least one kid probably flat out refused to eat peanut butter. Or ate peanut butter at home, but didn't want to bring it to school because then she'd have to sit at a different table than her peanut-allergy friend.

No, Mrs. Johnson probably had to prepare different lunches for each kid. She had to remember who doesn't eat fruit and who hates raw vegetables. Who will take cold pizza vs. who refuses any and all leftovers. And most importantly, who positively can't handle receiving the heel of the bread loaf.

Then there was the cutting off the crusts. The wrapping the sandwiches individually or putting small items like grapes into baggies or mini-containers. The striving to be sure it was, as Judd Nelson's derelict character put it with a sneer, "a very nutritious lunch" where "all the food groups are represented."

Mrs. Johnson had to wipe her daughter's lunchbox clean daily while whipping out a new brown paper bag for her son, who probably refused to carry anything reusable because it would mean an extra trip back to his locker to store it after eating. Then she had to discreetly label his name so it didn't look like Mommy wrote it.

To have all this infringe on her weekend time, her measly two days off from this daily drudge of a chore, was the ultimate injustice.

Especially when you don't even know for sure if your child is eating half of what you prepared. Just look at how Ally Sheedy's basket case of a character opened her sandwich and immediately flung her olive loaf onto the statue.

No, Mrs. Johnson, you weren't too hard on Brian that Saturday. As a matter of fact, maybe Mr. Vernon should've made the kids' punishment essay topic be about showing appreciation for how much work goes into preparing their damn lunches.

Too bad they'd only see it as they want to see it...in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions. Cue "Don't You Forget About Me."

Actual Time Spent Preparing School Lunches Daily: 25 minutes
Real Feel: 2 hours
# of Lunches I've Packed Since Eldest Started School: 2,880
Isn't That a Grossly-Exaggerated Estimate? Unfortunately, no. I multiplied 180 days of school by the # of years each kid attended full days thus far.

How about you? Do you loathe packing lunches? Is "The Breakfast Club" one of your all-time favorite classic teen movies? It's demented and sad, but social...

Feigning Informerical-Like Enthusiasm for September

2012-08-24T18:24:00.000-07:00

Is the fact that summer's ending getting you down? Are you already starting to miss those lazy, hazy days at the beach or pool and wondering where the heck the summer went? Well, cry no more.

A wise man once said (and that wise man may have been Classic TV dad, Mike Brady, in a Very Brady Hawaiian episode), it really "all depends how you look at things." Perspective is everything...even when dealing with an ancient Tiki statuette you believe is bad luck since your big brother seriously wiped out surfing in Honolulu while wearing it. Because hey, it was technically good luck he didn't drown, right?

You can already see just how useful and effective this Only Look at the Bright Side mentality is going to be.

As August ends, I usually roam the school supply aisles with a tangled knot of dread in the pit of my stomach, mourning the loss of those warm, unhurried summer days. But if Mr. Brady is right (and really, when hasn't he been right?), all we have to do is reverse our thinking to feel better. It's that simple!

So instead of focusing on what you lose as September approaches, let's examine what you GAIN! I'm even going to type each one in ALL CAPS and use lots of exclamation points because that alone indicates just how FREAKIN' WONDERFUL they all are!!!

The first thing you'll gain is...VEHICLES! Not to own, but completely surrounding you. Everywhere. You. Go. Yes, after Labor Day, there will be plenty of traffic now that everyone has returned from their respective vacations. Don't you just hate cruising through the center of town all by yourself? Wouldn't you rather sit in gridlock with idiots who clearly don't know how to drive? Of course you would!

You'll also gain PAPERWORK! That's right, get your pens ready to execute your best penmanship....You're about to be inundated with about 250 school forms to fill out and return! You'll spend that first free afternoon you've had to yourself since June filling out ream upon ream of info per kid. Lunch selections, milk orders, PTO interest surveys, emergency contact sheets, consents to use technology, health forms...Wooo-hooo, is there fun in store for you or what?

But that's not all! In an effort to be more "green," the school will simply email the forms...so you also get to download and print them yourself! Because you don't already spend enough time tethered to your computer.

Why, you lucky dog, you'll have almost as much homework as the kids....whom you'll also have to help with their homework overload. And buy poster board for projects. And cart back and forth to all their fall sports and activities daily among those shiny gridlocked VEHICLES! mentioned above. You certainly won't be bored, that's for sure! Now if that's not a gain, I ask you, what is?

And here come the CLOTHES! No, not the designer dud equivalent of an Oprah giveaway....but you can scream just as loud as her audience members when you see the increase in laundry! Instead of donning a simple swimsuit or shorts, each family member will now wear multiple outfits daily. School clothes, play clothes, dance leotards, and of course, the never ending caravan of sports uniforms that have to be ready by the next game...which is usually less than 24 hours away.

But wait, there's more! Since it's going to get cooler, more layers for them is going to equal more laundry for you! Bet you can't hardly wait! Jeans, sweaters and sweatshirts also make that laundry basket nice and heavy. Can you say, "added bonus?"

You'll also enjoy GETTING UP EARLIER! Everyone will count on you to get the whole crew to wherever they need to be at the crack of dawn. So instead of leisurely sampling a summer bagel, have fun choking down a dry bran flake while you try to usher the slowest people in the world out the door on time. That vein on your forehead is sure to pulsate with each reminder to be sure they have their belongings, too!

You know, I am so glad I stopped viewing summer's end as a loss. As a matter of fact, all this talk about what we GAIN! is so exciting, I'm getting tired just thinking about it! So right after I figure out how to unclench my jaw, I think I'll go lie down.

Wake me when it's June again.

Actual Length of Summer: 10 1/2 weeks
Real Feel: 3 week blur
# of Weeks Left Until Summer Break 2013: 42 1/2
# of Lessons Learned Watching Brady Bunch Episodes: 962 and counting

TALK TO ME: Can you think of anything else we "GAIN!" when summer ends? And please tell me you remember the Brady Bunch...

Changes and Other Reasons to Freak Out at Customer Service Reps

2012-08-16T01:54:00.000-07:00

I admit I'm not a big fan of change. When something changes, you definitely won't see me throwing a tailgate party and waving a foam finger or pennant that reads "Woohoo! Change!" I'm not too bad with the big stuff like moving into a new house or the kids switching schools. It's when unexpected small changes and little inconsistencies pop up that I start to ~~overreact~~ twitch.

Like when the supermarket didn't consider the fact it took me over a year to memorize their aisles before they recently rearranged their product placement. I could always enter, bang a left and seize the Cheerios right in front of me (although the checkout would still slow me down). But now I'm frequenting the same aisles over and over to solve the Mystery of the Vanishing Vanilla Cinnamon Oatmeal. If I wanted to run laps in order to eat my breakfast, I would've joined a gym.

But worse than supermarket metamorphosis is wasting ENTIRE AFTERNOONS this week dealing with customer service reps on the phone. Let me rephrase that: dealing with several customer service reps who each tell you something different about the same products and services that have apparently changed over the course of an hour.

And that's only after a solid 10 minutes fighting with the voice mail menu to get to an actual human each time.

My most recent aggravation began when I had to deal with the dreaded wireless company as I upgraded one of the dumb phones on our family plan for a smart one.

Me: Let me get this straight, with your new Share TMI Plan, I have to split my measly 2GB of data with other family members?

Rep: Yes.

Me: But on the old plan, I just paid for my own stupid data and got to hog it all to myself, which is really much more my speed. So how is this new plan "helping" me again?

Rep: You all get unlimited voice!

Me: And if anyone in my family ever used a cellphone for actual talking one day, that might mean something.

Rep: You can also now upgrade to share 4GB for just $10 a month AND add your iPad for another $10!

Me: Yes, but on the old plan I could use the smart phone as a mobile hotspot for the iPad and pay zero extra.

Rep: Well, then maybe you'd rather keep your old plan?

Me: Wait, I'm allowed to do that?

Rep: Yes!

Me: And it will be exactly the same?

Rep: Yes...except you'll no longer have unlimited data, but you DO get to keep the 2GB of data solely for your own smartphone. Then you'd just have to pay an additional $20 to use it as a hotspot for your iPad.

Me: So basically, there's no way to avoid that extra $20 per month, is there?

Rep: No ma'am, our CEO really needs to send his kids to the finest universities while continuing to purchase vacation homes around the world.

So now that we're apparently going to need a second mortgage to finance my mobile internet habits, we decided to look into saving money on the land line phone by combining carriers in one of those "triple" plans our cable provider offers.

1st PHONE CALL

Me: I'd like to know what it'd cost to combine my TV, internet and phone. I saw an ad for X per month?

Rep: Sorry, ma'am, X is only available for new customers.

Me: So you're basically penalizing me for being a loyal, repeat customer?

Rep: That's correct. The best price we can give you is Q.

Me: Q? Well, that's only going to save me about two bucks a month. I'll have to think about it.

2nd PHONE CALL

Me: I'd like to save two bucks by signing up for the Q plan.

Rep: Sorry, the Q offer recently expired.

Me: But I just spoke to Suzy Cheerful two hours ago, and she told me I could save two bucks with Q!

Rep: The best I can offer you is C after the activation charge.

Me: Activation charge? No one said anything about an activation charge. How much is that?

Rep: You'd just have to add R.

Me: Only add R? I could take my family to Hawaii for that. On a private jet. Belonging to the wireless company's CEO whose vacation home I just helped finance. Are there any other hidden charges?

Rep: There is small charge for the technician to come to your house that will cost you A. Plus the transfer fee to switch your number over from the existing carrier which is a nominal Z. Do you have a security system on the phone line?

Me: Yes, can you please just give me the overall total I'd be paying per month?

Rep: There's a small Y fee to tie in the new line to your alarm system, so let's calculate adding Y to the C, R, A, and Z.

Me: That's just CRAZY.

The scary thing is, even after factoring in the activation fees, it was a tiny bit cheaper than what I'm currently being ~~robbed~~ charged by the original phone company's rate increase.

And as if that wasn't enough to send my consistency-craving mind over the edge, that same cable provider is now moving channels and their corresponding numbers around.

Me: Hi, I wanted to watch Stupid People Shopping for Homes on channel 240 and found The Real Housewives of the Funny Farm instead. What gives?

Rep: We moved the home and garden channel. It's now channel 838.

Me: Well, you could've warned your subscribers ahead of time...and also asked my permission before using my photo in the Funny Farm series.

Rep: Ma'am, didn't you see the notice about the channel changes we included in your last three bills?

Me: No one reads those little pamphlets that come inside billing envelopes, c'mon.

Rep: Did you also miss the postcard reminder?

Me: Pft, I have 4 kids. I don't have time to read mail.

Rep: How about the email?

Me: Probably thought it was spam.

Rep: We also left a message on your machine.

Me: Deleted. I assumed you were just another automated telemarketer.

Rep: What about our carrier pigeon?

Me: Oh, so that's why my dog was coughing up feathers.

Rep: The smoke signals?

Me: It's been really foggy lately.

Rep: How about the sky-writing?

Me: Hey wait, does my DVR know to start recording my shows on these new channels?

Rep: Did you have it set to record the shows on All Channels or This Channel Only?

Me: Well, of course This Channel Only so I didn't get eleventy billion copies clogging up my DVR.

Rep: Then you have to manually go into your settings to input the new channel number.

Me: Don't you think it's a little presumptuous of you to assume I'll remember how to go into my settings? I set these shows up eons ago. I can't believe you didn't even TRY to give me the heads up on this.

Consistency, people. That's all I ask. That and maybe my own vacation homes all over the world.

TALK TO ME: Do small changes ever send you over the edge? Surely, you've wanted to slam the phone down on at least one customer service rep, right?

All Bets Are On...the Stuffed Animals

2012-08-08T11:03:00.000-07:00

Forget everything you may have heard about the legal gambling age being 21. Where we spent our vacation, even the youngest kids could place their bets and take their chances. As a matter of fact, it was encouraged.

Of course, the resort town's governing body might have a problem with that statement, but didn't seem to have a problem lining the boardwalk with row after row of stuffed animals and kid-themed prizes at their multiple Deceptive Gambling Stands of Torture.

It starts early in the day. You're on the beach attempting to read while simultaneously counting your kids' heads every five seconds. Growing bored of jumping waves and building sand castles after all of about 10 minutes, one of your offspring (let's call him The Addict) tells you his intentions of winning a coveted item on the boardwalk that evening.

You know, because it's not enough that you'll blow a good $100 on ride tickets.

You try to dismiss him with a vague "We'll see," but he's already memorized where the stand is, what it costs to play ("Only 50 cents per try!"), and could quite possibly provide blueprints of where you need to park and walk up to get him to his kiddie crack house of choice. Just make a left at the Ferris Wheel and walk southeast toward the Scrambler, Mom.

He'll remind you of his determination to win several more times, including at lunch and dinner, while you take your shower and while you try to read by the pool. (Seriously, why did you even bother bringing a book on a vacation? Did you really think it was going to be any different than your unsuccessful attempts to read at home?)

As your sandals clunk along the wooden boards that night, you can only wonder which stands will be the lucky ones to receive the mortgage payment's worth of cash necessary to support your child's gambling habits. Plus, if The Addict succeeds in winning something, you'll feel obligated to keep spending money until each of your kids has a prize.

It's usually wise to save the "You Win Some, You Lose Some" lesson for another day because vacations are supposed to be relaxing. Tantrums tend to thwart that. Ask your husband to signal you when or if said relaxing ever begins.

There are giant wheels of chance for your kids to place their bets on simple 3 letter words like "dad" and "cat" (more proof these are clearly designed to encourage kid gambling). Here, you only need the spinner to land on one of the 2,157 words to win "Choice!"

As long as it's also on the correct corresponding color space. A red "mom" for the win. A blue "mom" loses. Who knew the boardwalk could be poetic?

There are so many blinding, blinking lights, you can barely see the arrow. Yet you find yourself shouting, "C'mon, Flo! Flo, Flo, Flo...Flooooo!!!!!! Ooooooooh no....oh, Flo" when you really mean a different word that starts with F as you've just lost another five bucks.

One stand beckons your offspring ("Kids get an extra try!") to shoot round basketballs into oval hoops. Oh, they don't look oval from the front, but take a gander from the side, and you'll see the blatant non-circular truth. Explaining this to your little Lebron James goes over about as well as you suggesting you'll take him to a store and BUY him the stuffed Angry Bird for far less than the price of gambling for one three times smaller.

Another favorite is balloon popping for prizes. That's right, after you've spent the previous 364 days of the year preaching the danger of eyes coming into contact with sharp objects, somebody's placing spear-like darts into the hand of your five year-old.

And encouraging her to THROW them.

The next stand requires your kids to skip coins across glass cake pedestals. As long as it finishes up on a platter, you win......a ticket. A ticket that must be combined with at least five more tickets if your child wishes to win a stuffed animal greater than one inch tall. It's the one he absolutely has to have, despite the fact you can barely open his bedroom door at home due to the sea of furry friends on the floor.

Then there's the crane game at the arcade, where small objects are trapped inside a glass cage and your child's job is to steer and lower the crane, open its jaws, seize the object of desire and carry it to safety. The only problem is you've seen dollar store salad tongs with better grasping ability.

Just give him two more quarters, he begs. He knows he can get it this time.

But at some point, most likely when you've spent about $175 to win $4 worth of prizes, each child goes back to the hotel with a small trinket. As you kiss them goodnight, you can see their eyes are already wild with anticipation for tomorrow night's Gamble Fest.

You climb into bed thinking how you can quit this anytime. You'll be stronger and stop giving into your kids' ridiculous pursuits to win complete crap. Tomorrow night, you'll just say no.

Even you don't believe you. Fall asleep on the book you're now too tired to read.

Actual Time Spent Gambling for Stuffed Animals: 2 1/2 hours
Real Feel: 5 hours
Number of Stuffed Animals Accompanying You Home from Vacation: 14
Quality of Said Prizes: Poor enough that they leak white beads all over the car.

TALK TO ME: Do you ever find yourself financing a kid's gambling habit like this? Tips for where to store 80,000 stuffed animals are also encouraged.

And the Gold Medal for Meddling Goes To...

2012-07-25T06:08:00.000-07:00

While I certainly wouldn't say I succumb to full-blown Olympic Fever, I usually do enjoy tuning in now and then to see those with phenomenal skills race against the clock to best each other. I'm also always curious what the Opening Ceremonies will feature (good luck topping Beijing's...ever). So instead of Olympic Fever, maybe I have something a bit milder, like Olympic Ear Infection. Olympic Sinusitis. Olympic Itchy Eyes and Runny Nose or Maybe It's Just Olympic Allergies.

Through years of watching the games, it has always struck me odd that there is no Olympic medal for people who, well, meddle...as in, stick their noses where they don't belong. Meddling takes lots of practice. Timing is crucial. I mean, just imagine all the things the evil villains on Scooby Doo would've gotten away with if it weren't for those meddling kids.

It takes years of intense training to perfect meddling. How do I know, you ask? Do I, myself, meddle? Hahahaa, of course not. Well, at least not much. But I have seen enough meddling in everyday life to learn what's involved.

I believe an Olympic play-by-play of meddling could make for some compelling TV:

Announcer Bill: It's a great day to meddle here in gray and dreary London. Who do we have up first, Bob?

Announcer Bob: Well Bill, it's our youngest competitor at just 11 years old. His 7 year-old brother has just started playing a video game alone in the family room. Let's watch.

Bill: Note how every other seat in the family room is unoccupied, yet Pesky Older Brother moves in and purposely sits right next to his younger sibling. He is clearly no amateur.

Bob: That's right, Bill. With the expert skill of a well-seasoned meddler, he's now offering what could even be construed as helpful gaming advice, as if he's actually rooting for the little tyke to do well.

Bill: A crucial part of meddling, Bob. Establishing trust first.

Bob: And he's off! He's telling his little brother to move the controller a different way. He's clapping and cheering for the opposing aliens! He's physically knocking on his sibling's skull, seemingly searching for brains.
Bill: What's most impressive here, Bob, is his timing of pointing out how easy this game is for him, just as his little brother loses an alien life on the screen.
Bob: Oh my gosh, he's performing a made-up song about how only babies could lose at this game!
Bill: A shrewd move, Bob, quite possibly earning him bonus points for creativity.
Bob: He's demanding the opportunity to demonstrate the "real" way to play, Bill. He's wrestling the little guy for the controller, ignoring all shrieking requests for being left alone!

Bill: What's this I see, Bob? I believe the little brother might be starting to cry.

Bob: And now Pesky Older Brother is IMITATING the crying! He's mimicking word-for-word his little brother's request for him to stop it! A double salchow!
Bill: This isn't firgure skating, Bob. You're not even in the correct Olympic season.
Bob: The little one screams for his mom, making it a slick Triple-Axel!
Bill: Okay, now you're just throwing Olympic terminology around gratuitously.

Bob: Truly, this is an Olympic first. With only 53.6 seconds on the clock, Pesky Older Brother has succeeded in meddling in his younger sibling's video game enjoyment to the point of driving him to tears. And you saw it here live, folks.

We now go to a local Ladies' Room for the next meddling competition.

Bill: Set the scene for us, Bob.
Bob: Well Bill, this young woman has just had a spat with her husband, and Well Meaning Friend with Big Mouth is comforting her.
Bill: She'll have to be careful. The goal is to sound supportive while simultaneously interfering in their marriage.
Bob: I'd say there's a 4.8 level of difficulty here.
Bill: Okay, looks like she's already pointed out the obvious: that men often don't think before they speak. What will her next move be?
Bob: I have to admit I'm not sure, Bill. She might go in with what she would've said to her own husband in a similar situation or....Uh-oh! I can't believe it! She's talking trash about her friend's husband this early in the match. She mentioned his lack of gainful employment! I'm afraid that's going to cost her.
Bill: If it's one thing the judges want to see, Bob, it's passive-aggressive subtlety...not an outright character attack. Now she risks having the friend turn against her before any true meddling can be accomplished.
Bob: But wait! Well Meaning Friend with Big Mouth is right back in the game pointing out that she and her own husband always talk things out and never go to bed angry. She's adding how he always brings her flowers, how he recently surprised her with a diamond necklace and trip to Tahiti, and how he watches their kids every Saturday afternoon so she can relax at the spa!
Bill: It's working! Her friend is now questioning whether or not her own crappy marriage is worth fighting for at all! Total time elapsed is only 7.3 minutes!
Bob: And that's the way it's done, folks. That's the way it's done.

A hush grows over the crowd as the reigning Olympic Meddling Champion enters the suburban kitchen where the last round of competition takes place during the preparation for a family birthday gathering.

Bob: Tell us, Bill. How many years has Old Person with No Tolerance for How Things Are Done Today held the championship title?
Bill: Well, Bob, if she succeeds, this will be her twenty-seventh gold medal and her sixteenth consecutive year as reigning champion.
Bob: I see she's already scoffing at the bakery box on the counter. She's leading off by telling the hostess how in her day, she baked all birthday cakes from scratch. Next she's moves in with her signature combination, the My Fingertip Detects Dust and That's Not Where I'd Put that Vase blitz.
Bill: But the young mother of three isn't flustered, Bob. She's continuing to prepare appetizers without so much as a flinch.
Bob: Old Person with No Tolerance perseveres with unsolicited advice on the proper way to slice and dice. She's tossing the celery into the trash and telling her to do it over!
Bill: The hostess' children have just barged through the door and tracked mud through the kitchen after ignoring their mother's request to take off their shoes first. This is about to get ugly, Bob!
Bob: Old Person with No T seizes the opportunity to lecture on how ridiculous it is that today's generation won't say "no" to their children, how there's no discipline, how she'd make them come back in and scrub the floor themselves right now, how there needs to be consequences. She's even suggesting....GASP....spanking!
Bill: I think we're going to have to get a judge's ruling on that, Bob. Violence is a no-no for the Olympiad.
Bob: The judges are.....letting her off with a warning! What a lucky break for Old Person with-blah-blah-blah.
Bill: Bob, you can't get lazy and keep butchering her name like that, c'mon, man.
Bob: Old P with No T has moved on to question the young mother's choice of summer activities for her children. She's offering mock concern about the lack of quality time spent with their mother due to her being constantly tethered to her iPhone. OP says back in her day, when a mother was with her children, she was truly "with" her children!
Bill: We're seeing signs of the victim beginning to crack, Bob. Her shoulders are starting to tense, and there's a hint of gritted teeth. How much more meddling can she take?
Bob: You know, Bill, a lesser athlete might mistakenly begin to let up, but Old P shows just what a seasoned pro she is by switching tactics to focus on how the young woman barely looked up when her husband walked in the door. She's bringing up how back in the day, you did everything for your man, greeted him with a smile and satisfied his every need without question. That's why he didn't leave you for the chippie down the street, Bill.
Bill: Now she's ripping apart her appearance, Bob. Oh my gosh, did she just say the money she's spending on the gym membership could apparently be put to better use elsewhere? She's holding up a mirror and asking her to take a good, long look at herself! The crowd goes wild, begging her not to do it!
Bob: But it's too late, Bill! The exhausted woman's already caught a glimpse of how weary and pathetic she looks with no make-up and yoga pants. OP is relentless, badgering her about why any man would want to stay married to that, and implying her spoiled, ungrateful children will grow up, move out, blame her for the divorce and never call her. The young mother collapses into a heap on the floor, while OP raises her cane to begin a victory lap around the granite island.
Bill: All that in the record time of only 9 minutes, 21 seconds! But is it enough to secure the gold, Bob? We'll find out after this word from our 573,005,021 sponsors.

RESULTS:
Bronze Medal for Meddling: Well Meaning Friend with Big Mouth
Silver Medal for Meddling: Pesky Older Brother
And once again, for the sixteenth year in a row, the Gold Medal for Meddling goes to Old Person with Yada Yada Yada...

TALK TO ME: Do you have any meddlers in your life? Please do vent about it here...I won't meddle, promise.

I Scream, You Scream...It's All Your Fault, Ice Cream

2012-07-18T10:10:00.001-07:00

There's nothing better than indulging in the bliss that is ice cream on a warm summer night. Well, it could be even more blissful if say, the house magically cleaned itself. Or if it rained $100 bills. Or if you ever finally got tickets to see Saturday Night Live, for which you've applied 10 summers in a row to no avail. Or better yet, getting to meet the cast of Saturday Night Live! Can you imagine? Or...oh, sorry, back to the ice cream thing...

It's important to choose your ice cream place carefully. At minimum, the ice cream should be homemade on the premises (bonus if churned by Oompa Loompas) with many, many employees at the counter in anticipation of summer crowds. Extra points for an atmosphere befitting an old-fashioned ice cream parlor: Victorian gingerbread moldings, charming cafe tables, and pastel flavor/topping lists handwritten on chalkboards (Note to Self: Next time, order before obsessing over their chalkboards).

Given the rarity of such a place, there's a pretty good chance that everyone in your county and possibly your state has also discovered it.

Hello, long lines that stretch out the door and ziz-zag down the sidewalk.

Use this time to ask what everyone in your group wishes to order, although you know as soon as they peer into the tantalizing glass cases inside, they'll all change their minds. At least this is one locale where kids are pretty cooperative, so thrilled are they to procure a frozen treat. It's almost insane to now sugar them up with an icy cold concoction so close to bedtime. But hey, it's another chance to become their hero. You might even earn that Best Parent Ever trophy you missed out on last time.

There's just one obstacle in the way. Actually, several obstacles with legs, and they're all inevitably standing on line in front of you:

Perky Employee Girl (PEG): Can I help you?

Just an Indecisive Moron (JIM): Is the cherry vanilla made with real cherries?

PEG (still grinning cheerfully): Yes, sir. We only use all natural ingredients in our homemade ice cream.

JIM: Oh, I'm allergic to cherries. How about the vanilla? Is that real or imitation?

PEG (smile fading slightly): The real deal. We only use all natural ingredients in all of our ice cream.

JIM: I think I had vanilla last time though. How about the Reese's Dream? Does that have real peanut butter in it?

PEG (blood pressure rising): Yes, we only use ALL NATURAL INGREDIENTS IN EVERY SINGLE THING WE MAKE.

JIM (patting his huge gut): I bet that has a lot of extra fat and calories. I don't know, let's see. I do like root beer floats. Did you know that root beer actually comes from a root?

PEG: Yeah, um, would you like---

JIM: Bet you don't know which tree. Guess. C'mon. Okay, I'll give you a hint. It starts with "S."

PEG (staring incredulously): I'm sorry, we have a LOT of people waiting. Can I get---

JIM: The sassafras tree. Sassafras. Isn't that a funny word?

PEG (reaching for arsenic): Mmmhmmm...

JIM: How big is the Large? How about the XL? Ya know what? I don't feel like soda. Let me think....cone or bowl, cone or bowl...

Next up is the TMI Couple that shares a little too much during the ordering process.

Mr. TMI: I'll have three scoops of the Rocky Road in a waffle cone.

Mrs. TMI (with a huff): Really?

Mr. TMI: What? It's my favorite.

Mrs. TMI (exasperated): You're lactose intolerant. Don't you remember the two days of diarrhea you had last time?

Mr. TMI: It was your idea to go for ice cream. It's freakin' Lactose Lollapalooza here...what am I supposed to get?

Mrs. TMI: There's Italian ice or fruit bars or slushies...

Mr. TMI (shaking his head): Yuck, I don't want any of that sissy stuff.

Mrs. TMI: Oh, I'm sorry.....I guess Tammi with an 'i' only goes for manly men who eat real ice cream?

Mr. TMI (shouting): Her name is Toni, and I told you, we're just friends! She only grabbed my thigh because she lost her balance...

And then there's this crazy person:

Hey, do you guys do all that chalkboard lettering yourselves? You have someone come in and do it, huh? Can I ask you what they charge? Okay, I'll come back when the manager's here. But do you know if it's real chalk or chalkboard acrylic paint? Let me take a closer look. I'll be able to tell...Oh, only employees allowed behind the counter? Could I just---? No, no need to call Security. See, I have a blog, and I illustrate it with chalkboards, so...Is there any way you could find out what font that is?

When it's finally your family's turn, whoever is either the sloppiest and/or wearing the lightest color shirt will invariably order the bright, florescent blue Smurf flavor. The clumsiest will tip the cone so the entire scoop plops onto the sidewalk moments after stepping outside. And the finicky one will bemoan the ice cream place is sold out of her one-and-only request.

But the long wait and other aggravation won't matter for long. You'll forget it all after that first spoonful of creamy goodness. You are SO coming back here tomorrow night.

Well played ice cream, well played.

Actual Time Spent Waiting on Line for Ice Cream: 25 minutes

Time Indecisive Moron Took to Order: 7 full minutes

Amount of Ice Cream Enjoyed: Every last little drop

Fat and Caloric Intake: Let's not even go there.

Number of Times You'd Be Willing to Do This Again: How many summer nights are left? 47? Okay, 47 then.

TALK TO ME: What's your favorite ice cream? There are so many cool concoctions out there, but I can never go wrong with tried & true French Vanilla. I'm bland like that. Plus, it doesn't stain...because I'm clumsy like that, too.

DOG: Best Friend or Master of Time Manipulation?

2012-07-10T00:22:00.000-07:00

You've probably heard from someone somewhere that one human year is like seven years to a dog. I'm not sure what the dog hours vs. human hours per day breakdown is as I've stated before how math is not exactly my forte. One thing I do know? My dog's daily time management skills put me to shame.

Rest assured this is not one of those sappy posts about how we should take a cue from dogs and spend more time frolicking in the fresh air or all that other sunshine and rainbows stuff. I'm talking about my dog's uncanny ability to manipulate his family and environment to his liking, spend every minute doing whatever he pleases, make repeated mistakes and still be worshipped.

Nice work if you can get it, right?

I can only imagine starting my day with all of the kids (even the teenager) jumping up in excitement when I come downstairs. They'd race over to pet me and praise me...instead of, you know, only looking up from the Xbox long enough to demand waffles.

Bet you can't picture a son saying this amid a shower of hugs and kisses...or even in front of his friends: "Come here, Mom! Aw, what a good mom, such a good mom. And cute, too, yeah, look how cute you are! You're the best mom in the whole wide world. And I love you, yes I do."

But for our dog? Every. Single. Day.

The kids might even fight over who gets to pet me first. All of this just because I entered the room! Imagine if I did something actually involving work, like preparing their meals. Or doing their laundry. Or transporting them to and from their 5,000 activities, for which I have been thanked and/or appreciated -5,000 times currently...with not so much as a pat on the head.

And speaking of meals, if I'm a dog, I'm not cooking...nor do I have to clean up. That frees up eons of time right there. Someone will just set down a bowl of something I find delicious (which for my yellow Labrador, is pretty much everything including, but not limited to, hardwoods). Plus, my dog can eat whatever he wants and never have to worry about fitting into a pair of jeans, or worse, a swimsuit.

There's also no getting dressed, nor struggling with hair or make-up or any daily beauty regimen in general. I'd just look fabulous and be forever comfortable in my own fur. Added Bonus: Even if I did happen upon my reflection in a mirror, I'd just think it was another dog.

I'd spend the day lounging around, napping wherever the sun patch relocates. I could plop down for 40 winks right on the floor whenever the mood struck, and it wouldn't bother me at all to be next to a dust bunny (ahem, not that we ever have those at our house, of course, cough, cough).

If the floor did need cleaning? I'd just play the I'm Terrified of the Vacuum card.

Since dog vision isn't the best, I also wouldn't be distracted by all the home improvement projects that need to be started (or in some cases, finished). And no more losing an hour getting sucked into HGTV.....I'd be basically colorblind, so those transformation shows probably wouldn't hold my interest (or envy).

As a dog, I could also mark my territory or use a simple bark or growl to say, "My iPad, MINE. Go play your video games on a different device. I need to check my Twitter feed."

Even during errands, I could make better use of my time. If I need to reach something on a ridiculously high shelf at the store...there's no waiting for an employee's assistance. I could just jump and clumsily knock it (along with 15 other boxes of brownie mix) off the shelf. And if the shelf gets scratched up and damaged? So what? I'm a dog. I don't know any better, even if you did repeatedly reprimand me for the same thing on multiple occasions.

The couch my dog mistook for one of his eleventy billion chew toys? Filed under "oops," forgiven and forgotten.

Besides, if you choose to discipline me, all I have to do is look at you with my soulful, well-meaning doggie eyes. They'd be my greatest weapon. If I could master the expression my dog has when he begs, I'd need never nag again.

Kids' socks on the floor? One pathetic glance and all clothes go into the hamper and toys get put back where they belong. Throw in a cute little yawn, and the kids might even go straight upstairs, brush their teeth and get into bed on their own...the first time I ask.

Not that I would care what time they got to bed if I were a dog. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't think or worry about much of anything. There would be no racing against the clock because I wouldn't know how to tell time....or look ahead to the future. I can honestly say my dog has never lost sleep over how he's going to put our kids through college (if only they did accept shed fur as tuition payment...the kids could all even go on to grad school). He's also not going to develop the ulcers or high blood pressure with which I'm probably destined to become afflicted.

You know what? The more I write this, the more annoyed I feel about how easy my dog has it....and how I'm clearly such a sucker for his nonsense. Now that I'm onto him, I need to stop playing the fool and giving into whatever he wants.

And I will.

Effective immediately.

Or maybe right after I throw this tennis ball....because you know, he just dropped it into my lap and tilted his head with those pleading eyes and that cute little wrinkle he gets across his brow.

TALK TO ME: Do you ever find yourself allowing your pets to get away with something based on their Cuteness Factor alone?

Firecracker, Firecracker, Sis, Boom, Blah-Blah-Blah

2012-07-04T09:53:00.002-07:00

America is hosting its annual birthday party in the sky, and you're invited. Because who doesn't love watching things explode amid thunderous pandemonium? Well, your preschooler, and also, your dog, who has spent the past three nights frantically pacing and barking each time a neighborhood pyromaniac sets bottle rockets off between 12 and 4 AM.

But hey, the rest of the family seems eager to witness tonight's government-approved detonation of gunpowder. On any other day of the year, it's generally frowned upon to blow things up. Whereas tonight, you get to cheer while being simultaneously feasted upon by mosquitoes.

Begin the process of rounding up the offspring a good two hours before the fireworks start to allow travel time to the town 10 minutes away. Remind everyone to use the bathroom at home as there will only be bacteria-breeding booths of filth to relieve oneself at the field.

Locate the blanket, chairs, bug spray and other assorted items you need. Remind everyone to use the bathroom. Pack the car. Remind everyone to use the bathroom. Get into the car. Ask if everyone remembered to use the bathroom, and escort the one who forgot back into the house.

You're on your way. Sort of. If you count moving about one tenth of a mile per 15 minutes in traffic as making progress.

While you lug all of your stuff from the car to the field a mile away, wonder if you made the wrong choice having a dog as a pet. What you really should've adopted is a mule. The dog's currently at home relaxing in the A/C, whereas a mule could be here to transport your stuff and maybe even give the kids a ride through the muggy streets of suburbia. Wonder why more mules aren't being implemented for this purpose. Oh, that's right. Too big and smelly to fit in a minivan. Decide to put your billion-dollar Rent-a-Mule business plan on hold.

Pay the "optional" donation to enter the park. It's so crowded you can smell other people's bug repellent. Realize you left yours in the car. Hear the mosquitoes snicker with delight.

Recall how difficult it is to keep an eye on the kids outside during the day, and how now you get to attempt it in the dark. Justify the purchase of overpriced glow stick necklaces to help spot your children....you know, among the 517,298 other neon rings of light jumping around.

Sit and wait. Wait some more. It's almost 9, but not quite dark enough. You keep thinking you feel something crawling on you. As a result, you make sudden spastic swatting motions repeatedly. Your husband shakes his head.

Your son asks to play with a fireworks app. There's no point in going into your usual lecture about experiencing life for real instead of on a small screen, blah blah blah. At least when he uses the app, he stays on the blanket where you can see him...or a shadowy form that resembles him anyway.

You can hear fireworks already going off in a nearby town. Watch everyone crane their necks to get a glimpse over the trees. It always seems the other towns are doing it better.

Finally, a single firework is launched where you are. Ooh. Ahh. A second and a third go up, separately of course, because this painfully slow, one-at-time thing will continue until the finale.

There's that tickle on your arm again. Smack it multiple times, but secretly hope you missed because the thought of smeared insect carcass on your skin freaks you out more than a possible bite.

After approximately four fireworks, there's a lackluster ground display. This one's a red, white and blue.......uh, flower? Patriotic pinwheel maybe? Uncle Sam's hat tumbling through the breeze? Rotating satellite dish atop an octopus?

People become obsessed with commentary over color and form. Suddenly, it's okay to publicly shout a preference for cascading comet tails that whistle. When a dud goes off, the crowd actually boos its disapproval....as if the people launching it care or will make a note for next year.

Within 15 minutes, the last twinkle of the anti-climatic finale dissipates, and you try to avoid getting trampled as you exit in the gunpowder-induced smog.

The mosquitoes recline on their chaise lounges, patting their bellies, full and fat.

Actual Time Spent Watching Fireworks: 15 minutes

Time Spent Traveling to and from Local Fireworks: 2 hours

Real Feel: 4 hours
Number of Mosquito Bites You Incurred: 47
Number of Mosquito Bites Your Husband Incurred: .05 (He smacked it dead mid-bite).

TALK TO ME: How's the fireworks show where you are? Do mosquitoes find you as delicious as they find me?

10 Things That Take Longer Than They Should

2012-06-27T23:45:00.000-07:00

You might think if someone often blogs about her frustration in dealing with aspects of time, she's probably not the most patient person in the world either. And you would be right. Here's further validation of just how right you are with the following list of small things that end up taking a big chunk of time, but shouldn't:

1. TOY PACKAGING

The U.S. Department of Defense should take pointers from toy packaging engineers. The wires, the tabs, the tie wraps, and most recently, the tiniest of screws. Don't they understand the miniature screwdrivers in my house are rarely returned to the proper drawer? And why does Barbie's hair need to be STITCHED to the cardboard? I promise I won't run off with her golden locks and make a really bad wig for a Bratz doll, honest.

2. MEDICAL TEST RESULTS

As if it isn't enough I've been poked or prodded or forced to squeeze very sensitive parts of myself into an evil medical device (I swear it smiled as I winced)...I then have to wait two full weeks to find out whether or not there's a life-threatening disease lurking in my insides. I jump every time the phone rings, and then my husband's stuck repairing the dents I make in the ceiling.

3. EXERCISE

If it only took me 5 minutes to eat the dessert, it should only take me 5 minutes of vigorous (or better yet, not-so-vigorous) exercise to work off the fat and calories....not a week's worth of intensive cardio.

4. REBATES

Isn't the receipt enough proof we bought your stupid brand of contact lenses? I have to create an online ID, research the date of last office exam, answer dozens of questions, and decipher a captcha to prove I'm human (you know, because so many spambot computers wear contact lenses). Then I have to cut out UPC squares, tape (never staple) them to the printed form and mail. It's almost as if you don't want to give us back the money you promised, but I'm sure that just couldn't be the reason it's such a hassle, right?

5. QUICK & EASY DINNER RECIPES
It always sounds so simple. Start with chicken, add some fresh veggies and rice and voila, it's a healthy meal in 10 minutes! Except they leave out the time it takes to slice and grill the chicken, rinse and dice the vegetables, cook the rice and wash my hands five times because raw chicken is Just. That. Slimy. So yeah, 45 minutes is more like it.

6. IN-PERSON REGISTRATION

Even my 94 year-old grandmother knows everything is done via computer these days (she also plays Wii...I swear). Yet every now and then, I still have to rise before dawn to go wait on a physical line....two hours before registration even starts....because it's the only way to get my kid signed up for Class That Everyone Wants But Will Never Live Up to the Hype. No online registration option? What is this, 2005?

7. CANDY WRAPPERS

It may be easy to steal candy from a baby, but said baby would enjoy a good laugh while the thief tries in vain to tear open the wrapper. I want to immediately partake of the chocolaty goodness, not have to walk all the way across the room to get scissors. I also hate mourning the loss of the two dozen M & M's that end up ricocheting off the walls when the bag rips down the center (may they rest in pieces...I mean, peace).

8. NEW SEASONS OF MAD MEN

After keeping us in suspense for nearly 2 years, you breeze in and out with only 13 episodes. By the time we get to travel back to 1967 again next year (or the year after), I'll have to study IMDB's episode guide to recall where the heck you left off. I already miss the Sterling Cooper Draper Minus Pryce gang (and Megan's killer wardrobe) so much, I could almost tolerate smarmy Pete Campbell's smug face. Almost.

9. APPLYING SUNBLOCK

I can't take the pressure. If I miss a couple of spots during application, someone could be in a LOT of pain and a possible candidate for skin cancer....as well as having a back that reads like a map of North and South Red Splotchia and the Deep White Sea.

10. WRITING THIS POST

It's just a blog entry. No matter how much time I spend, it's never going to be Nora Ephron witty (RIP, inimitable writer....may you enjoy every M & M lost above), so just be done writing this already. And how hard is it to draw a picture on a chalkboard? My kindergartener could probably do it in about 7 seconds...

TALK TO ME: What else takes way longer than it should?

You Want McStress with That?

2012-06-21T17:37:00.000-07:00

You've simply run out of quick healthy dinner ideas. It happens. Late afternoon consisted of whisking your kids from playdates to orthodontist, a pitstop home to lace up cleats, and then off to the ballfield for the fourth night in a row. You've got nothing left (both figuratively and literally) to grill, nor do you have the willpower to try to scrounge something together from what may or not have spoiled in the fridge.

Once the voices in your head stop cackling about what a horrible mother it would make you, berated and broken, you cave to the kids' incessant begging. You agree to go Golden Arches.

The queasy wave of parental guilt attempting to completely engulf you is staved off by the fact the kids are thrilled. Even your teenager gives you a rare hug. In their eyes, you are now Best. Parent. Ever.

You've been warned it's best to walk into the restaurant (the term "restaurant" meaning "building where fattening chemicals are deep-fried"). If you order inside, you can then supervise the order's assembly for accuracy.

However, the person who came up with that modicum of advice clearly does not have kids. Going in will make this whole three ring circus take five times as long. It will involve the younger ones climbing the playgym...the place where germs give birth to new germs, construct germ houses and even feed their microscopic germ dogs. (We met one of their dogs once. His name was Pox).

No, you've already eliminated all hope for nutrition, so you at least want to reap the benefits of purported warp speed and easy clean-up. You steer toward the drive thru, although you can't exactly drive thru just yet because it's crowded. Marvel that while most of America agrees fast food is artery-clogging poison, there's still a line at 8:00 at night.

When it's finally your turn to pause in front of the high-quality speaker system, sit there waiting for staff to notice you. There's plenty of time to imagine where on your mantel the kids can put your Best Parent Ever trophy. It'll probably go right next to the one your husband got last week, when he let them consume an entire family-size bag of cheese doodles and play video games for three consecutive hours while you were shopping.

At last, the employee speaks. "Wompclompa, wai wyyy woomp yah wrorraah?"

You've been magically transported to a Snoopy cartoon where the adults portrayed have vocal clarity issues. Just assume it was some version of "May I take your order?"

This part is crucial. You have the fussiest kids on earth. One can't deal with onions. One can't stand pickles or cheese. None of them want the standard issue value meals as advertised, and mistakes will guarantee tears.

Because you can't understand the Voice-in-a-Box, you find yourself shouting your entire order slowly and deliberately, as if it can't hear you either. Place extra emphasis on the specifics of the boy-to-girl toy ratio. Your youngest son has never gotten over receiving a mermaid doll with 6 inches of flowing pink hair and sparkle gems while his brothers received Hot Wheels vehicles.

The unintelligible box asks what you believe to be a question since the indecipherable utterances went up in pitch at the end. "Yeew wompoa haaanr ohfaaana?"

Repeat your entire order to clarify, hoping you hit upon whatever point she was questioning. Voice-in-a-Box replies with another inquiry about wanting to add anything else/supersize/try a dessert, etc.

Deliberately answer in gibberish and drive ahead, so for a change it will be her wondering what the heck you just said. Your kids crack up. You are so getting that trophy.

Too bad the people in front of you haven't received their orders yet, so your car has only advanced about one yard. When drinks are handed to you in a tray contraption sure to tip over, instead place each into one of the minivan's 22 built-in cup holders. It only seats 7 and the miles-per-gallon sucks, but by golly, the genius engineers made sure everyone could transport about 3 drinks each at any given time.

You know you should pull over and double-check your order but again, there's that whole too late and too tired thing, plus the kids are completely famished beyond hysterical by this time of night. Elect to drive home.

In the kitchen, your fries gets cold while you scrape melted cheese and flick diced onions off burgers, promise one crying child you will go buy a toy to replace the included one she just broke, and defend you definitely requested BBQ sauce for the chicken nuggets although said sauce is nowhere to be found. Try to ignore it when child slams his bedroom door.

Your trophy must have gotten thrown in the McTrash.

Actual Time Spent at Fast Food Drive-Thru: 12 minutes

Real Feel: 25 minutes

Time Fast Food Saved as Opposed to You Cooking: 20 minutes

Amount of Aggravation and Indigestion Caused: Enough to render it not worth it.

TALK TO ME: What do you say when your kids beg you for fast food? Unless you have the kind that never ask at all....in which case maybe YOU deserve a parenting trophy.

Summer's Little Shop of Horrors

2012-06-15T21:07:00.002-07:00

With each step you take, your heart thumps against your rib cage. Fear and dread knot together at the back of your throat. Your legs start to wobble, yet you must forge ahead. What awaits behind the next turn is so horrifying, it chills you to the core. You swallow hard, exhale and sigh. You've reached the Swimsuit Department, and it is not for the weak.

To the left, there are racks and racks of string bikinis. Pass. On your right, skirted one-pieces even your grandmother would find matronly. No thank you. Continue onward, searching for the section with swimsuits befitting a woman such as yourself...somewhere between I'm No Longer 29 and I Survived the Stock Market Crash of 29.

Keep walking. Walk some more. It must be here somewhere. Surely, you're almost there. You're...wait a minute, how did you wind up near the cosmetic counters? What happened to the swimsuit section for people who aren't 20, but aren't 90 yet either?

Oh, that's right...there ISN'T one.

Yet you must persevere because the remaining swimsuits you own have stretched out in some areas and shrunk in others. Once beloved, they're no longer flattering. You're unsure how this happened as it couldn't be your own body has changed. Or gained any weight. Or redistributed weight you already had just because you've gotten a little bit older and gravity, she is mean and ornery. Whatever the reason, you need the maximum lift and support power only virgin spandex can provide.

Vow not to leave the store without at least one new swimsuit (lest you have to go through this experience again....it's the only thing worse than shopping for jeans).

Pilfer through rack after rack of tangled straps. There's a lot of black, and with good reason. You're rather sick of black though. You crave a floral, a print, something different, something modern, something that doesn't make you look like a beached balloon animal.

Spy a beautiful tankini halter top, but darn it, the coordinating bottoms have "SEXY" written across the behind. You love comedy, but not when it would cause people to laugh at you instead of with you. Unfortunately, most designers make it impossible for you to mix and match the top of one swimsuit with the bottom from another.

Just as you're about to resign yourself to searching out swimsuits online or in catalogs (again), you find some at least worth trying. Select duplicates in various sizes since manufacturers can't seem to agree on universal measurements.

This brings you to the most horrifying part of the swimsuit shopping experience: Not only will you have to see how bad they look, you'll have to see it in a 3 X 3 cubicle with the worst possible lighting.

Search for a fitting room that doesn't already have 400 rejected swimsuits covering the bench and obscuring all hanger hooks inside. When that doesn't exist, clear a hook by shoving the preexisting stack of discarded suits into the room next to you. Hang yours with your favorite choice in the back to try on last....because if that doesn't fit, you will immediately lose all willpower to continue this horror show:

ACT 1: The floral that's supposed to say Exotic Island Woman Sipping Mai Tai

YOU LOOK LIKE: A loaf of bread wrapped in a tablecloth & cinched with twist-ties

HORROR MOVIE EQUIVALENT: Psycho

ACT 4: A soft green sure to flatter

YOU LOOK LIKE: a rubber-banded tennis ball

HORROR MOVIE EQUIVALENT: The Thing

ACT 7: Cute polka-dot tankini
YOU LOOK LIKE: a wrinkled 6 year-old
HORROR MOVIE EQUIVALENT: Child's Play

ACT 12: Basic black classic

YOU LOOK LIKE: Every other female in an ill-fitted bathing suit at the pool

HORROR MOVIE EQUIVALENT: A Nightmare on Elm Street

ACT 16: Fun mid-century modern print

YOU LOOK LIKE: An older, frumpier Jan Brady

HORROR MOVIE EQUIVALENT: Showgirls (Okay, technically not a horror movie, but the fact this sorry Elizabeth Berkley flick was ever released is positively terrifying).

Everything you want held in? Squeezed and spilling out. Anything you might want to accentuate? Flattened and obscured. All that you need lifted and supported? Epic fail. There's too much fabric in all the wrong places, and then not enough fabric where there ought to be some.

Finally, you're down to one last suit. As you stretch it over all that sags on your person, a miracle occurs. It fits! It's not too young for you, nor too old....Why, you can even exhale without enduring physical pain or seeing visual pouch!

Search for the label. You have to learn who the designer of such a fabulous garment is. She must truly understand women's body shapes. She must toil night and day to perfect the proper proportions.

She must be crazy if she thinks you're paying $200 for a swimsuit.

Go home and search through the mail for the latest swimsuit catalog. Too bad it's already June, so they're all Christmas catalogs instead.

Actual Time Spent Swimsuit Shopping: 3 hours

Real Feel: Do they even have clocks in Hell?

Chance You Will Return to Consider Purchasing the Pricey Suit: 95%

Chance Someone Else Already Bought the Last One in Your Size: 100%

TALK TO ME: What do you hate most about swimsuits?

A Guide to the Adult-Kid Time Continuum

2012-06-08T23:21:00.003-07:00

One of the reasons there's such a discrepancy between Actual Time and the Real Feel is that it's all about perspective. Who you are, where you are, and what you're doing help define time. But age is another factor, resulting in further discrepancies between how adults and kids measure time.

For example, you may have found yourself in a scenario where you asked kids to wait five minutes for you to get off the phone to read a book to them. When five minutes was up and they came back to remind you, it seemed like only five seconds to you. To them, it seemed like five hours.

Maybe there ought to be an Adult-Kid Time Continuum reference book where you could find viewpoint clarifications for common time-related words and phrases like these:

TIME [tayhm]

ADULT: The hour and minutes displayed on your watch, phone or other time-keeping device. Wow, the time is 5:12 already?

KID: The hour and minutes you ask about so frequently that said adult's watch hasn't even changed since you last asked. What time is the movie going to start? Is it almost time? How about now? Is it time yet? Now is it time?

SECOND [sek*uhnd]

ADULT: A quick pause. Please hold on just a second...I'll be right back.

KID: How long it takes to scrape knee, get full of mud or break something while adult's back is turned. I was only going to look at it for a second, but then it spilled by accident. I didn't know it would stain the rug.

MINUTE [min*it]

ADULT: The time between dropping your kid off somewhere and having to pick said kid up. What was that basketball practice, like, a minute long?

KID: How long he's been playing Xbox. What do you mean turn it off? I've only been playing for like a minute.

ONE TIME [wuhn*tayhm]

ADULT: A singular occurrence and how often you wish you had to say something in order to yield results. I should only have to tell you one time to go do your homework.

KID: Oft-repeated introductory phrase for communicating what happened previously. Usually involves creative embellishment. One time, my friend said he was eating pizza, and one time he burned his mouth really bad, so like one time, it was so bad, it made his eyeballs pop out, and one time, they had to go to the emergency room to glue them back in, and then one time...

A THOUSAND TIMES [a thou*zuhnd tayhms]

ADULT: The number of times you've repeated yourself. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times...no jumping on the couch.

KID: The number of times he's had to say your name to get your attention. I just yelled "Mom" from my room like a thousand times, but you still didn't bring me a drink of water.

50 MILLION TIMES [fif*tee mil*yuhn tayhms]

Adult: Number of times you've found a tween's clothes on the floor. It's ridiculous I've had to pick your clothes up 50 million times when you should be doing it yourself.

Kid: How many cool things your friends get to do that you don't. Why can't we go to the beach today? My friends have been there like 50 million times already this summer.

FOREVER [fawr*ev*er]

ADULT: The amount of time it takes for a kid to get into pajamas and brush teeth. Why does it take forever for you to get into bed on a school night when we all have to get up so early?

KID: How much time remains before food is ready. Although I just had a snack 10 minutes ago, I'm starving. You're taking forever to cook dinner!

LAST TIME [lah*st tahym]

ADULT: The point where you refuse to repeat yourself again. I'm telling you for the last time...turn off the TV.

KID: The time before today, back when things were allegedly done more to her liking. But last time you let us stay up past midnight.

BEDTIME [bed tahym]

ADULT: Extremely short period to attempt to recharge oneself before getting up to do everything all over again. Thank goodness it's the kids' bedtime so I can get things done uninterrupted, and if I'm lucky, get maybe six hours of sleep myself.

KID: An unnecessary obstacle to having more fun. Why do we have to go to bed? I'm not tired. My friend's bedtime is way later than mine. Why do we even need sleep anyway?

So when you next use time-related terminology, just keep in mind your definition and a kid's interpretation of the very same words may be completely different.

TALK TO ME: Do you have any time-related terms you'd like to add to the Adult-Kid Time Continuum Guide?