My First Launch

The other day I was making muffins with my kids while listening to Lynrd Skynrd. My oldest son said, “This song is okay for old people music.” I let his slap in the face, I mean compliment, go unnoticed. Not killing my offspring is just one more of the services I provide in the school of mom. Showing the children care about them even though they say things that make me want to pile drive them into the carpet is a requirement of motherhood.

I, like a lot of other mothers, spend a significant amount of time and energy trying to be a better parent. I read books, watch videos, talk to other moms and spend a lot of time feeling guilty for just about everything except breathing; sometimes, even that. The hardest part of being a mother is trying to decipher which expert is correct. Is it the TV psychologist with a best-selling book? Is it the psychotherapist with his own syndicated Sirius satellite radio program? Is it the spiritual healer/nutritionist with the sweat lodge and organic hemp t-shirts? That is the thing; everyone says someone else has the answer.

I read magazines written just for my kind of dilemma. Magazines with titles like: Parents, Parenting, Parent Life, Mothers, Mothering, Family Fun, Family Life, Home Life, Home Girl, Home Court Advantage, and the list goes on. Most of them do nothing to help me and I have suffered innumerable paper cuts thanks to those little cards that they stick in between the pages. Even when I am trying to be a better mother I am suffering, babies should come with a warning label that reads: giving birth is just the beginning of your pain, wait until they start to dig through your purse.

Recently, I read the worst article I have come across yet, it was titled: The Six Most Annoying Things Kids Say. It was supposed to be a self-help article on how to deal with those annoying little gems kids blurt out, but instead it was just a waste of electronic file space on some poor server. In a nutshell here is what the article calls the most annoying things kids say and how to deal with them:

Mine—Ignore it
Not Fair—Explain that nothing is fair
You’re Not the Boss of Me—Try to Understand what the child is really trying to express
I want it now—Pretend not to hear it
You never let me do anything—Is something wrong
I don’t like you—That hurts my feelings

All I can figure is this person obviously has no children. If these are their list of the 6 most annoying things, they must be living in a semi-frozen state of consciousness or have been exposed to large amounts of high-octane gas fumes. If all my kids said were the above six things, I wouldn’t have this annoying facial tick and unquenchable craving for gin and tonics. So, here is my list of the top 20 annoying things my kids said to me today:

1. Mom, you wanna hear a song? It is called the song that never ends.
2. Boogers taste yummy.
3. Are we there yet? How about now?
4. Wow, that guy’s back is almost as hairy as dad’s!
5. I need some more money.
6. Your butt is getting bigger and bigger.
7. Can I have 5 friends sleep-over . . . tonight?
8. I need 48 cupcakes for school today.
9. Can you help me with my homework about 2 trains, one is going 35 mph headed South, and one is going 62 mph headed East?
10. Mom, how old do I have to get before I can grow a mustache like yours?
11. The dog ate all the dimes out of my coin collection.
12. Wow, Mom, you have more grey hair than Justin’s grandma!
13. I heard Daddy tell someone you aren’t the boss, you are just bossy.
14. Something got spilled in the bathroom, I am not sure if it is soup, throw-up, diarrhea or my science fair experiment.
15. Can I please be adopted?
16. Daddy’s secretary sure is pretty.
17. Mommy, the police are here . . . again.
18. When I grow up I want to work at McDonalds!
19. Uncle Paul said boys are smarter than girls, you can’t fight genetics.
20. I know you can light farts on fire, I saw it on Mythbusters.
*Bonus Annoying Item* 21. Knock, knock. Mom, you are supposed to say, “Who's there?”

Maybe all us parents should just stop while we are ahead, and never teach the kids to talk in the first place.

In honor of Charlie Sheen, and shameless self-promotion, I have decided to run a contest for the month of March. That’s right, I am gonna bribe you. So what is in it for you? Dignity, a pat on the back, a warm fuzzy feeling? No, none of those things. But, I will be giving away a gift bag valued at over $40 in merchandise! Woo hoo!

I know what you are thinking. I am a poor starving artist, suffering for my craft. How can I afford such an expensive give-away? Ha ha! I can’t. But I hit up my sugar-daddy and he agreed to give me some moolah so that I can bribe, I mean entice, you ungrateful, I mean, lovely folks.

Ok, so here is the skinny . . . All you have to do is leave a comment in the “comments section” and please include your email address. For each comment I will give you one (1) entry in the contest. If you put a link to my blog (http://myfirstlaunch.blogspot.com) on your blog, web-site, facebook page or twitter page--you will get five (5) entries. That is correct, five, like wow, right? Just shoot me an email to make sure I have a way to contact you. You can contact me at: soniatodd@frontier.com or via facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sonia.todd

So, I won’t disqualify you if you write mean, irate, or nasty comments--but I like nice ones better. A friend of mine, who is a shift supervisor at Jiffy Lube, who has a cousin that is a custodian at the courthouse, knows all the legal lingo and he says we have to make it fair. Oh ya, I almost forgot, if you become a follower, you will also get another (5) entries in the contest. Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you—five! As in golden rings, fingers on each hand, and the money that Lincoln’s face appears on (it is the five dollar bill right?)!

Maybe you are thinking, ‘I don’t want no stinking gift bag.’ Well, my friend, you would be what I like to call--wrong. This thing is packed, with like, cool stuff. It isn’t something I shelled out a handful of pennies for at the dollar store. This stuff is nice, top-of-the line goodies.! The best stuff that money could buy in a small town, without any selection, or self-respect, and with inflation creeping up, the recession smacking us down, and the U.S. dollar reaching pitiful lows. Trust me, you want it.

Before I forget . . . this contest is only open to legal U.S. residents (I really cannot afford to ship this thing out of the country). Some exclusions may apply. For example, anyone involved in the making of the book, or the movie, Twilight, or any of its ridiculous off-shoots, is ineligible, vampires are stupid, seriously. Additionally, I am not responsible for emails or comments lost in cyberspace. This contest will end March 31st. A winner will be selected at random, on or before April 8th, by scooping a wadded-up sheet of paper with names on it, out of a plastic bag, shoebox, or mixing bowl--depending on the number of entrants.

So there you have it. A contest—Yee Haw! Enter now!

Recently both of my kids were gone for the evening at a sleepover birthday party, so that left the husband and me all alone. The house was so quiet, nobody was screaming, nothing was being broken, nobody was needed to plunge a toilet. It was so tranquil. Anyway, my husband and I were sitting all alone in our quiet house and he looked over at me and said in a husky voice, “The kids are gone and I shaved my back, wanna go out?” So we dressed for dinner and selected a restaurant that did not offer crayons, a drive thru, or nuggets of any kind and prepared ourselves for a romantic night on the town.

Since it was a spur of the moment decision, and we didn’t have a reservation, we weren’t sure that we would be able to get in at a nice restaurant. But, as luck would have it, the hostess found a table for us right away. It was the teeny-tiny one located right in the middle of the dining room that nobody ever wants. You know, the one right in the middle of the high traffic area and about the size of a TV tray, only more wobbly? Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers, and middle-aged couples with one night of freedom will pretty much take anything.

As we sat at our table and looked over the menu we began to wonder if the wait-staff had forgotten about us. My husband tapped the tines on his fork as I felt my crows feet deepen. We looked around trying to make eye contact with anyone carrying a serving tray. Eventually our waiter could not take our death stare any longer and came over and took our drink order and promised to “be right back.” I have found that most waiters are liars, and this one was no exception. To me, “right back” means he will return in 3-5 minutes, however, in the waiter’s handbook it is defined this way: “We are going to serve everyone else in the place, let them eat and pay, and then, if we have nothing else to do, we might come back and take your order, but that is a big maybe.”

In time, a long time, our waiter did return. It might have had something to do with me sticking out my foot and tripping him as he went by, but I can’t say for sure. Anyway, he did bring us our cocktails and let us order our appetizer and meal, but I was doubtful we would ever see either.

“Do you think they are getting any bites?” My husband asked.
“What?”
“Well, you did order the Salmon and that means they have to go fish for it.”
“Don’t blame me. You are the one who just had to order the pasta and sausage. First they have to grind the flour, find some sheep gut for casing and kill a pig. Seriously, whose meal do you think will take longer to make?”

The table next to us was eating a delicious looking meal and it was hard to keep from staring. My husband said, “I am so hungry.”
I said, “Me too, all I had was a single grape and some macaroni that one of the kids didn’t finish at lunch.”

Then my husband leaned in close, looked at me with love in his eyes and said, “Ok, here is the plan. I will create a diversion; you steal both plates and the bread basket. Oh, and if you can, grab the giant pepper grinder, I love those things.”

I think the couple whose food we were thinking of stealing heard us because the gentleman at the table fashioned his cloth napkin into a noose and dangled it above his plate. Thank goodness the waiter came by with our cheese platter or things might have gotten a bit dicey.

Now, about the cheese platter, my husband isn’t a big fan of cheese. He is mostly afraid of cheese that isn’t bright orange and doesn’t come wrapped in cellophane or squirting out of a pressurized can, but it was date night, so he let me order the appetizer. I helped out by refusing to tell him what any of the cheeses were--I didn’t think gagging and choking sounds would be appropriate at a fancy restaurant. He was a real sport, and was actually enjoying himself until he took a big bit of what he thought was cream cheese, and with his mouth full of bread and dairy said, “I think I taste goat.”
I said, “No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I know what cow tastes like and this isn’t it.”
“Could you please just swallow it and stop talking with your mouth full?”
“Fine. But I want to know what kind of cheese that is?”
After he swallowed I said, “goat.”

Before my husband could accuse me of trying to poison him, our salads arrived. Nothing happened during the salad portion of the meal except that the table next to us got new residents, one of them was a cackler. The cackler was a woman who laughed so loud it was like a car accident, all screeching and broken glass. My husband leaned over again, “Ok, new plan. I create a diversion and you smack her in the face with your salad plate. Be sure to hit her really hard, you don’t want to just stun her; you need to knock her unconscious. And don’t forget the pepper grinder this time.”

I was about to question why he always gets the easy part of his plans when our entrées were delivered. We even got our own bread basket full of day old croutons.

“Hey you wanna break bread with me?”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“No really, it is hard as a rock. I think the roof of my mouth is bleeding.”

Finally, it was time to hunt for our waiter so that we could pay. We were going to order dessert but the kids were only going to be gone for one night and we didn’t bring our toothbrushes. After we had settled the bill and were on our way to the car I asked my husband what time it was.

“Only nine o’clock. Wow, it only took three hours.”
“I know. It felt like it took much longer.”
“You’re telling me. It feels like midnight.”

My husband belched sausage.

“Are you thinking what I am thinking?”
“That you need some antacid?”
“Yes, and . . . ?”
“That the night is young?”
“Yep, and if we hurry home we can be in bed and asleep before nine-thirty!”
“Well, let’s get a move on then, there is a pillow at home with my name on it!”
“Race you to the car!”
“You are so romantic!”

The other morning I woke up to my husband's eyebrows attacking me. I know that I don’t usually tackle these hard-hitting subjects, but there is a time to joke and a time to be serious, and seriously his eyebrows were scaring me.

I did not know how to broach the subject with him so I started off gently by saying, “What the heck is going on with your eyebrows?”

He said, “Oh, that. Well, I am not sure. I go to bed looking like my normal self and when I wake up, I have the eyebrows of an eighty year old.”

“Really?”

“Really. I’m not sure what to do about it. I try to keep them trimmed back with scissors but they keep getting longer and wirier and stranger.”

“Have you tried plucking them?”

“With what?”

“A tweezer.”

“I don’t have a tweezer on my Leatherman. In fact, I don’t think I have a tweezer in any of my tool boxes.”

And that conversation is when I realized, not only are men and women different, but men know nothing about grooming. So, I decided it was time for my husband to learn about the wonders of self-maintenance.

Again, I introduced the subject of grooming, “Honey, have you ever heard of the term metro-sexual?”

“Yeah, isn’t that just another word for chick?”

“Actually it means the strong, sensitive man that is not afraid of taking care of his appearance.”

“Sounds like a wuss to me.”

“Why don’t you want to spruce yourself up? You want me to look my best, why wouldn’t you want to look your best?”

“It is like this: Women are already attractive. You can polish a Porsche, and it looks even better, but even if you polish up a rusty old pick-up truck, it still looks like a rusty old pick-up truck.”

“But don’t you care about how you look?”

“I mean, I don’t want to look like Frankenstein, but I don’t have to look at myself all day, so I would have to say, not really.”

“Aren’t you worried what other people think?”

“Eh . . . no. I mean, take the bearded lady at the Conoco, she has a five o’clock shadow by 9 a.m. but I look at her and think, well at least I am not the bearded lady. I am the bearded lady for other people. They look at me and think; well at least I look better than that guy.”

“So you are a humanitarian?”

“Basically.”

I was not going to give up, mostly because I believed that my husband would feel better, if he looked better. And, I was afraid if we didn’t do something those eyebrows would strangle me in my sleep. So I went to the store and bought him a tweezer.

I noticed the eyebrows had been tamed a bit recently, so I asked, “How is the tweezer working out?”

“You know, it isn’t bad. It hurts like the dickens but at least you know what is coming, not like that nose-hair trimmer you got me for Christmas.”

“I didn’t even know that you used the nose-hair trimmer, what is wrong with it?”

“Oh yeah, I use it. If I don’t it looks like a toilet brush is hanging out of my nose. But anyway, sometimes I stick it up there and everything is ok, and then sometimes, the motor twists those hairs around and I think I am going to die. It is grab bag really.”

“ . . . Ewww . . .”

Then he said, “Yeah, I am glad you helped me out with this whole grooming thing. You are kind of like that dog that helped his owner by chewing off the infected toe.”

“What?”

“You really came through.”

“What dog? What toe?”

“On the news. This guy had cut his toe and he didn’t go to the doctor and it got infected. Then one night the guy passed out on the couch and the dog chewed it off and saved the owners life. The guy can only count to nine now on his toes, but sometimes that is the price you have to pay.”
“So you are glad about taking care of the eyebrows, but you think I am a dog?”

“Yeah, you are helpful like that dog. Always looking out for me and stuff. I would like to point out though, that the dog waited until the guy was asleep, more men would groom if it could be done while they were unconscious.”

“Wow.”

“I know, right? So, thanks hun.”

“No problem.”

Then he said, “Is this one of those times, when you feel closer to me, I mean did this talk help you too?”

“Well, in a way, it is helping me to understand what is wrong with you. I think I am going to take a long, hot bath.”

“It’s part of your grooming right? See I am catching on.”

“If grooming includes trying to cleanse ones mind and forget about this entire conversation, then yes, yes, it is.”

My dryer broke recently. this forced me to call Some Extremely Annoying Repair Service. I don’t like to bad mouth anybody, so for the purposes of this post I will call them SEARS for short. The day the dryer died, I went into the SEARS store where I purchased the dryer, and asked to set up a service appointment. Some college kid stopped playing solitaire on the computer long enough to hand me a business card with a phone number on it.

He said, “We don’t do that here.”
“You don’t do service?”
He rolled his eyes at me. “You have to call the number on the card.”
“Then one of you will come and fix it?”
The teenager sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know who fixes it. You have to call the number.”

So I went home and called the SEARS number on the card but their offices were closed. I was just at the store two minutes before I called, but in the time it took me to walk out to my car and drive the ten blocks home, SEARS had had time to kick out all remaining customers, turn off the lights, lock the doors and turn on the answering machine. This amazed me, because the person I spoke to didn’t seem capable of moving that fast.

Anyway, I called early the next morning. After ten blissful minutes navigating the electronic phone tree, I was finally allowed to speak with an actual person. I do not know her name, all I know is she was a Crazy Lady On Phone, or CLOP for short. The CLOP had to ask me a few questions before she would let me make an appointment with SEARS.

CLOP: I have to ask you a few questions to ensure you have not violated the terms of your warranty agreement. Has your dryer been used for commercial purposes?
Me: No.
CLOP: Has your dryer been used for residential purposes only?
Me: Yes.
CLOP: Did you, or have you ever, used your dryer to wash hazardous materials and/or flammable materials such as gasoline, kerosene or oil?
Me: You can’t wash in a dryer, you can only dry . . .
CLOP: Ma’am do you need me to repeat the question?
Me: No.

*Silence*

Me: No. I have not put any flammable materials in my dryer.
CLOP: Has your dryer been damaged by lightening, hurricane, flood, mudslide, tornado, or any other weather-related incidents that could be classified as ‘an act of God’?
Me: . . . um, no . . . I think the heating element is bad.
CLOP: Has your dryer been moved aggressively, bumped violently and or dropped from a height?
Me: Nooooo.
CLOP: Now you are free to make an appointment. What would be a good time for you?
Me: How about today?
CLOP: We have nothing available today.
Me: Tomorrow?
CLOP: No.
Me: When is the next available appointment?
CLOP: Friday at 10 a.m.
Me: I’ll take it.
CLOP: While we are there servicing your dryer would you like an estimate for new doors?
Me: No.
CLOP: New windows?
Me: No.
CLOP: Would you be interested in an estimate for new countertops, new appliances, cabinet refacing, water softeners, vinyl siding, light fixtures or a deck made completely from engineered lumber?
Me: No.
CLOP: Ok, how about we do a preventative maintenance on your washer at the time of your dryer repair?
Me: How much?
CLOP: $39.95
Me: . . . Ok . . . but that is all . . . I mean it.
CLOP: Thank you again for choosing SEARS, we will see you between 10 and 2 on Friday.
*Click*

The last thing CLOP said before she hung up . . . between 10 and 2 . . . was I hearing things? I thought my appointment was at 10 a.m. so I called back. Twenty minutes later I get Another Crazy Lady On Phone (ACLOP).

Me: I scheduled an appointment for 10 a.m.
ACLOP: Yes, between 10 and 2.
Me: But my appointment was for 10 a.m.
ACLOP: Yes, the technician will be there between 10 and 2.
Me: But I have things to do that afternoon, he will need to be done by 2:45.
ACLOP: I will notify your technician.

The day of my service appointment, 10 a.m. came and 10 a.m. went. By 11 a.m. I called, ACLOP told me not to worry, the technician would be arriving soon, he would be done on time, my dryer would be fixed and life would be rosy.

By 12 p.m., I was looking out the window every 5 minutes. By 1 p.m., I was pacing. By 2 p.m., I had a stop-watch and was counting the seconds. By 2:15 p.m., I called SEARS again.

CLOP: Your technician didn’t come?
Me: No.
CLOP: He didn’t call?
Me: No.
CLOP: He will be there.
Me: When?
CLOP: Soon.
Me: When?
CLOP: In a half hour or so.
Me: Well, I won’t be here. As I told you before, I have other things to do.
CLOP: Would you like to cancel your appointment?
Me: No.
CLOP: Did you want to reschedule your appointment for another day?
Me: No.
CLOP: He is on his way . . .
Me: I want to talk to your supervisor.

So CLOP goes and gets the Supervisor In Charge Of CLOP or SICO-CLOP.

SICO-CLOP: He will be there.
Me: I have to leave soon.
SICO-CLOP: We will let him know.
Me: Can I just talk to him directly?
SICO-CLOP: We will have him call you.
Me: When?
SICO-CLOP: Soon.

Thirty minutes of hair-pulling and binge-eating later, my service-man from SEARS finally calls as I am heading out the door.

“Sorry I couldn’t call sooner. Our jobs are put in a queue, we don’t even know where we are going next until we complete a job, and the next one pops up in our assignment list. I didn’t get the message to call you until 20 minutes after your job was assigned to me, at 2:15 p.m.”

I gritted my teeth and told him to be at my house at 3:15 p.m. or I was pushing my dryer out the second story window and buying a new one from his competitor. He told me I was the 4th person this week to say that, isn’t that a strange coincidence?

Him: You know your warranty agreement does not cover a dryer dropped from a height?
Me: So I hear.

My dentist says I have a small mouth, but he is the only one. One of the things that I hate most about people is all it takes is one verbal misstep and they hold it against you forever. I say one wrong thing, and they never let me live it down. Here is what I have to say about that: I’m sorry I am an idiot.

My mom used to tell me that I ‘played dumb’ when I was a teenager. The truth is, I wasn’t playing, I really am that dumb. I was about fifteen when during dinner; the whole family was gathered around the table, discussing their day, when I was engaged in a verbal tête-à-tête with my sister. I disagreed with something she said, so I said, “Oh bull!” My dad, whom I had no idea was even listening to the conversation, came unglued. He started ranting about swearing, and appropriate dinner-time talk, and the merits of clean speech. I sat stunned trying to figure out what set him off. I really had no idea.

So I said, “What are you yelling about?”

He said, “What is ‘bull’ short for young lady?”

And I said, “I don’t know.”

So he boomed, “Yes, you do!”

I ventured a guess, “I guess it is short for bull-oney.”

That is what you would call, the wrong answer.

Now, I know that there are other people in the world who misspeak. Presidents for example (“strategery”—not a real word, “I did not have relations with that woman”—but ya did), anyone who has ever mistakenly said, “When are you due?” to someone who is just overweight, that WikiLeaks guy, etc. But I, I take saying the wrong thing, to a whole new level.

I once worked for a tenured full-professor who had just undergone eye surgery. I had only been in his employ for two weeks, when he came into work wearing his post-surgery eye patch. Now, in my defense, I have to say, I am mostly psychologically retarded and it is bad-wiring in my brain that made me say, “Shiver me timbers, how arrrrrgh you doin’ matey?” I know. I can’t believe he didn’t fire me either.

The truth is, most of the time, when I speak, it is a mistake. My brain just cannot keep pace with my mouth. Like when I was talking to a friend recently, I started to recount a conversation I had with my husband, about how hard it is to get rid of a body, if you ever found yourself in a situation where you needed to get rid of one. The woman gathered her children closer to her bosom and looked aghast. That is right—aghast. Yeah, I don’t think she will be calling me anytime soon.

And once, when I was waiting tables in college, a group of guys came in real early on a Saturday morning all wearing matching hats that had the name of a popular band stitched onto the brims. Coincidentally, that band, whose name was monogrammed on those hats, had performed a concert the night before, just a short jaunt from where I was waiting tables. So I asked, “Hey, did you guys go to the concert last night?”

One of the gentlemen looked at me a little oddly, but smiled and said, “Uh, yeah.”

“How was it?”

“Great!”

Then I said, “Awesome! More coffee?” And I walked away singing off-key to the piped-in muzak.

Later on, one of the other waitresses said to me, “I am so excited, I am going to go ask for their autographs!”

“Who?”

“Don’t you know who that is over there?!”

“Well, I do now.” And I spent the rest of my shift hiding in the bathroom and trying to figure out how to kill myself with a toilet plunger.

The thing is, these moments where I have verbally shot myself in the foot, have made me a better person. For example, now when I say something stupid, I get over it faster, have learned how to deny it better, and have taken to taunting others who have a similar problem.

Case in point: My husband was browsing a friends Facebook profile on his laptop when he said, “Wow, she has a huge décolletage!”

I said, “What??? Whose cleavage are you looking at?”

He said, “What are you talking about?”

“You said she had huge cleavage!”

“No, she has a lot of pictures. Isn’t that what décolletage means?”

So I said, “Um, no. That would be a collage.”

“Oh. Well, I have been saying it wrong for a long time then.”

“How long?”

“Forty years.”

“They teach you what ‘collage’ means in kindergarten.”

“Not my kindergarten. And you wonder why I am the way I am.”

*click*

“What was that click? Was that your pen? Are you writing this down?!”

“Yes.”

“Great, now I am constantly under surveillance. I suppose you have never misspoke?”

Then I said, with all the confidence of the seriously deluded that I could muster, “That would be misspoken, and nope.”

I have been saving Sara Lee bread bags all summer. I only needed 5 UPC codes to send away for a free Toy Story light-up lunchbox (soft, full-sized zippered lunch tote--$14.00 value and includes shipping and handling fees—Collect the entire set!) for my soon-to-be 1st grader. Today was the day I decided to clear off the kitchen counter and see where to send my codes to redeem them for this “very special” offer.

So, I went to the website as instructed on the bags, which directed me to enter the 10-digit number from the UPC area which I did without a hiccup, I took a high school accounting class, I have mad 10-key skills. Anyway, after that, the website asked me to either register or login. What does that mean? I did not understand, but I decided that my odds were 50/50 that one of the choices would take me where I needed to go to get my prize, and since I have a “back” button, I picked register.

Then the computer asks me a series of personal questions (everything from my date of birth, to mother’s maiden name, and how I take my coffee in the morning) but I do not fret, because I am a woman of the new millennium, a Gen-X’er (or is it Gen-Y'er?)on a mission for a free-freakin’ lunch pail, so I give them all the data they ask for and press enter. The screen pops up with a message “This Login has been taken please try again.” Ok, my name must be really common, I will try a different user ID, i.e. name, that is not my own and pick something totally random, like: Apple pie. The computer screen says: Taken. So I try: Dutch apple pie. Taken. Pecan pie. Taken. Banana Cream Pie. Taken. Lemon Custard. Taken. Scotch. Taken. Scotch and Soda. Taken. Scotch and Soda with a Twist of Lime. Taken.

AAAAAh, I take a deep breath, bang my head on my keyboard a few times and then pour myself another cup of coffee and take 2 aspirin, crack my knuckles, and think to myself, maybe I have registered on this site before. I go back to the “Register or Login” section and pick Login. Then I click the button that says “Forgot Login ID,” because I have. I think. A new screen pops up and asks me to enter my email address. They, the evil torturing people who are running this website, send me my login info in an email, so now I have to go check my email. Sure enough, I have registered at this site before, because right before my eyes, in my email inbox is the Login ID (name) of a long-since-dead pet--a fire belly newt--named by my children: Goliath Scooby Doo.

Phew! Step 1 complete. That wasn’t so bad, 45 minutes or so, went by in a breeze. I wonder if I can suffocate myself with a bread bag? But alas, I have to continue my quest, I can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, I mean it is a $14 value after all, so I go back to my screen, and search for the tab where I can enter my Login. No, not that one, not that one either, no not that one, a-ha I found it. Now I click “forgot password” and sure enough they, still the crazy psycho-paths running this site, will send it to me in an email. So I go check my email. Nothin. I reload my messages. Nothin. I put my coffee cup in the sink and stare longingly at my knife-block contemplating my own demise but snap back to reality when I hear my 6-year-old yell from across the house, “Mooooom, I need to poop!” I yell back, “Well, go then!”

Ok, back to this lunch tote thing. Check my email. Nothin. What in the heck? So I go back to the screen that said it would send it to me electronically and read the fine print. “Our system will usually send a response immediately, but please allow 24 hours for password to arrive in your inbox.” As I started to crawl under my desk to unplug my computer to chuck it out the window, the screen popped up with “You have 1 new messages.” Eureka, I am saved! I pick myself up and open my email and there it is: One password. I enter it in the proper screen and wait for it to tell me where to send my plastic bags to redeem my free gift.

Then the screen says the unthinkable: “Oops, we are out of stock. Please check back for future promotions from Sara Lee.” AAAAAAAGGGHHHH! I start cursing under my breath. I have lost over an hour of my life, one that I cannot get back. I am not a young person; an hour is a lot to a person my age. I am beside myself with grief. “Why? Why me?” I lament. How could I be so deceived by these devil-bread-maker-free-lunch-tote-offering-lunatics? Then in small print on the bottom of my screen, blurry from my tears, were the words I had been longing for: “Enter UPC Codes for a chance to win a family vacation for 4 to Pixar Animation Studios, have lunch and meet your favorite Toy Story 3 characters.”

Hope is not lost! I have 5 UPC codes! I may not have a lunch box, but wouldn’t a family vacation be better? So I click on it. I enter my information. Things are going smoothly. I am already registered. I know my password, I know my login, and I have my codes. Then I get to the final screen and it says: “I am sorry this contest is now closed.” The fine print says it ended yesterday, which is about the amount of time I spent trying to get my information entered on-line.

The moral of the story is, don’t eat bread, it is full of carbs and it will just raise your blood sugar, your blood pressure, and steal your soul, causing you to die. Trust me; I know what I am talking about.

Men and women communicate differently. I should know. As the only woman in a house full of men, it is painfully obvious. Even the turtle won’t talk to me. Well, he is dead. But intuition tells me his dying was just a creative way to give me the silent treatment.

With regard to talking to men there is one principle I have learned, men like short conversations and interactions. By short, I mean one word and preferably one syllable responses.

Me: “Would you like chicken or pork chops for dinner?”
Him: “Either.”
Me: “I was thinking about getting a new hair-do.”
Him: “OK.”

My son says his teacher talks too much. I asked him what he meant by that. He said, “My teacher goes on and on about nothing. He talks constantly, like a girl.” So now, not only are throwing like a girl, crying like a girl, hitting like a girl and screaming like a girl all insults, but now talking like a girl is bad as well. This is a really unfortunate turn of events because talking is something that most females do really, really well. I even talk in my sleep! If there was a talking hall of fame I would be in it.

I did some super-scientific research (I asked all men I am related to leading questions and gave them $5 each) to try and understand why men have a problem with long conversations. Through my study I found that there are four basic reasons why men prefer to keep verbal communication to a minimum.

1.) They think you are trying to sell them something and/or separate them from their money.
2.) They feel that you are trying to get them to do something that they don’t want to do-- like eat meatloaf.
3.) They are afraid that the more words used is in direct proportion to the likelihood that crying will take place.
4.) They are afraid if you start talking you may never stop.
To summarize, men are paranoid.

Even though men keep their uttering’s brief there is a lot of meaning in those select expressions. For example, when you ask your husband “Would you rather have tacos or spaghetti for dinner and he says “either” what he really means is “I don’t care as long as it isn’t meatloaf again.”

When you say, “I love you.” And your husband says “I love you too.” What he really means is “Oh crap did I forget her birthday or something or did she make meatloaf again?”

When you ask your husband “What do you think of my hair?” and he says “It’s nice.” What he is really trying to say is “The hair is nice but that dress makes you look a little wide through the hips.”

When you ask “Do these earrings go with this necklace?” and he says “Yes.” What he really wants to communicate is: “Oh my word! She is going to make us late for our reservation and then we are going to have to sit at the bar for 30 minutes until a table opens up and then that one weird waiter is going to keep coming up to me and checking to see if we are ok and touching me on the shoulder and she knows I cannot be touched right before I am going to eat steak!"

When men are speaking their brains are going through a process to eliminate excess words from their speech. It is like a verbal diet. Because of this process men often try to speak in words but the only thing that comes out are grunts. Although primitive and controversial, these guttural noises are still in use today. Many scientists have spent years trying to decode these ancient ramblings. The secret lies in the subtle differences in tone and length of grunt. Here is a brief tutorial on some of these types of communication.

“Hrmpf” means “You are wrong.”
“Hrmmmmpf” means “Interesting, but I still think you are wrong.”
“Hrrmmmmmpf” means “Talking about it doesn’t make you less wrong.”
“Hrrmmmmmmmpf” means “Seven o’clock, a week from Tuesday.”

Part of the problem is that men don’t understand what women are talking about, or why. I asked my son to explain why he fades out mentally when talking to girls. He told me this story about having to talk to a girl in his class; they were partnered up for a science project. He asked her about the model they were making of the digestive system and her response was:

“Ok, like some friends of mine, well not friend-friends but people, you know, that I hang out with, were going to like go to the mall. But I don’t mean go-go, I mean like go. And we were like looking for stuff that we couldn’t find because it was like moved around or something, in like the store. And we had to ask a person who like was working there, but they didn’t work there and it was like so embarrassing. I almost died! Seriously died! And now I almost never go in there anymore because it was like so totally traumatizing.”

My son’s response was, “What does that have to do with the small intestine? Oh yeah, it is a waste by-product. I get it now.”

I have read a lot of books on how to get my husband to talk to me. The books outline different methods and give them cute names to help you remember how to use them. I have defined a few of them below.

The Sandwich Principle—If you have something important to share (the meat) surround it on both sides by compliments (the bread). For example: "Honey, I am so glad that I have such a wonderful husband like you that wants to take care of me and provide nice things for me, because I just maxed out the credit card buying shoes, and I am also so grateful that you don’t believe in the death penalty.

The Salt Principle—If you have something important to share first lure him in by laying out some salt so that he will be thirsty for more information and then be willing to engage in a discussion. For example:
Me: Phew, that was a close call today; I am so glad the ambulance arrived when they did.
Him: What ambulance?
Me: Oh, at the mini-mart. It was a little touch-and-go there for a while before the fire trucks got there, but they were able to put the blaze out in no time at all.
Him: Blaze? What Blaze?
Me: Oh, just a little unintentional fire. The important thing to remember at a time like this is that no one got hurt and just be thankful for our loved ones.
Him: What did you do?!

The Heimlich—Hit him with several quick jabs to the chest and refuse to stop until he talks to you.
Him: I can’t breathe!
Me: Talk to me!
Him: I can’t breathe! *Gasp*
Me: Talk to me or else!
Him: *Wheeze*
Me: Fine, don't respond! But if you think falling into unconsciousness is going to get you out of this conversation, you are mistaken!

One of the books said that I should read the news so that I have something interesting to talk to him about at the end of the day.
Me: “On the news today they were talking about personality types. Do you think I have a type A personality?”
Him: “I think one of your personalities is.”

One of the books said that I should be sure to talk to my husband about spiritual matters because it will forge a deep emotional connection.
Me: “It was a terrible situation, but then I just knew what to do, it was like God spoke to me.”
Him: “Oh yeah, is he really, really old like everyone says?”

One of the books said that I should be fascinated with his interests and I should leave it open for him to discuss what is important to him.
Me: “So is there anything that you would like to discuss?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Is there anything that you would like to talk about?”
Him: “Tonight?”
Me: “Well, tonight or whenever?”
Him: “With you?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “No.”

After years of careful study of the male species and trying to figure out the best way to communicate, I finally asked my husband what he thought the difference is between the way men and women converse. He said, “Men stick to the facts and women talk about how everything makes them feel. If I was in an accident I would describe it with the facts. Like, I ran off the road here and hit this tree and it caused this type of damage. You would say something like, (insert falsetto voice here) ‘I was so scared, I thought we were all going to die, I saw my life flash before my eyes and all I could think about were my children being motherless.’”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t? Really?”
“No, I would stick to the facts as I saw them. I would say, my husband is a terrible driver that tried to kill me by running into a tree. I think it is because of the insurance money. Thank God you are here to save me officer. I hope you have an ambulance for me and handcuffs for him. He is a maniac.”
“Those are the facts?!”
“As I see them, yes. It is all a matter of perspective my dear.”

And that my friends is the secret, it is all in how you look at it. And how I see it, is if he doesn’t talk to me tonight, I am going to feed him meatloaf . . . just like I did the turtle.

I have read a glut of parenting books and articles and one thing they all have in common is that they encourage parents to talk to their kids. What I want to know is: why?

If you are a grown person and you try to talk to a child only one thing will happen, you will have an overwhelming desire to impale yourself on a sharp object. Trust me, a 20-minute conversation with a 5-year-old will get you thinking about your own demise and praying it will be soon. I have actually been in the throes of a deep conversation with my son about bazooka's and spit and found myself fantisizing about dropping a toaster in my own bath water. I don't want to be gruesome, but there is only so much time one can spend conversing about poop that resembles a brown golf ball before you want to take your own life. I speak the truth.

Even the most innocent conversation with a child can turn ugly in a second.

Them: "Ellie lost a tooth at school today."

Me: "Well good for her! That is great!"

Them: "It is not good, it is sad. because I didn't lose a tooth."

Me: "Oh honey, your teeth will come out when they are ready."

Them: "I gave it time. Everyone in my class has lost a tooth except me. I am the only one who has not lost a tooth!"

Me: "Don't worry sweetheart, it will happen soon, I promise."

Them: "Well it better, cuz I really need the money!"

Even when I try to talk to my children about serious issues, like avoiding kidnappers and staying off of drugs, my admonitions are met with some resistance.

Me: "So boys, what would you do if someone you didn't know told you to get in their car?"

Them: "Here we go again . . . *sigh*"

Me: "Because I don't want you to go near anyone's car, especially someone you don't know. What should you do?"

Them: "Mom, did you watch some news story about somebody getting kidnapped in Topeka or something? Have you been watching 'America's Most Wanted' again?"

Me: "That is not relevant. And besides it was about someone getting taken in Akron. Regardless, this is serious. This could save your life! Now think, what would you do?"

Them: "Uh, is the answer the same as the last 50 times you asked me?"

Me: "Ok, let's try this a different way. What would you do if someone came up to you in a park and asked you to help them look for a lost dog?"

Them: "Well, if it was in the park, then I would say no. But, if it was in our neighborhood I would go ahead and go with them and asked to be paid in Kool-Aid, because you never let us have Kool-Aid and it is delicious. And then, I would punch them in the stomach."

Me: "What?! No! That is not what you are supposed to do!"

Them: "Ok, then I would grab a missile launcher and shoot them in the eye and then I would turn into a Transformer and fly into space and I would get my Autobot friends and we would destroy the evil people! And then I would find the lost dog and take him home and name him Turtle."

Me: "What . . . ?! No, no, no! That is not what I have told you to do! But before we continue, just for my own peace of mind, why 'Turtle'?"

Them: "I just think it would be a good name for a dog."

One of the articles I read recently on the web at PTA.org by Meline Kevorkian (yes, that is her real name) said that there is "power in choice" and "When you are talking to your children, give them a choice whenever possible. Allow them to feel you are talking with them and asking them rather than at them and telling them." The article made it sound so easy. So I decided to give it a try, and you know what, I don't think my kids read that article because there seems to be a slight disconnect somewhere.

Me: "What do you want to get your cousin for her birthday?"

Them: "I don't know."

Me: "Do you want to get her this?"

Them: "I don't care."

Me: "Well you can browse and select something you want to give her. Would you like to pick something?"

Them: "Not really."

Me: "Would you like me to pick out a few things and you can narrow it down?"

Them: "Whatever."

Me: "Ok, what about these three things, which do you think she would like best?"

Them: "It doesn't matter."

Me: "This one is pink and that is her favorite color, but this one is metallic and kind of funky and this one has sparkles which is also a plus. What do you think?"

Them: "Either way."

Me: "So pink, funky, or sparkles?"

Them: "Mom, who cares?! Let's just get the one you are holding, go pay for it and go home."

Me: "Good idea, thanks for helping me. I sure appreciated your input. So . . . what do you want to have for dinner?"

I don't like to beat around the bush so I am just going to say it, those parenting experts are wrong. Mostly because of how they define talking. When they put things in print like "talk to your children, but mostly listen" they are implying there is something to listen to that sounds more like actual words and less like evolutionary gutteral mumbling. I once had a child therapist tell the group of us in a parenting class to "ask questions and be open to hearing what your child has to say." I am open, but last time I checked the dictionary "hmmmpf" accompanied by a shoulder shrug is not real speech.

Me: "So how was school today?"

Them: "Fine."

Me: "Did anything interesting happen?"

Them: "No."

Me: "How are your friends doing?"

Them: "Good."

Me: "Did you have a math test today?"

Them: "Yes."

Me: "How did it go?"

Them: "Ok."

Me: "Anything you want to tell me or talk to me about?"

Them: "Nope."

Me: "Are you doing drugs?"

Them: "No."

Me: "Have you been abducted by aliens?"

Them: "No."

Me: "Did you change your underwear this morning?"

Them: "Yes."

Me: "Do you know that I love you?"

Them: "Yes mom. (eye roll) And I love you too."

Me: "Good, I am glad we had this talk."

Regardless of how discouraging it can be though, I say keep on trying. Maybe the 'talking to your kids' thing isn't such a bad idea after all. Eventually someday you might see a glimmer of hope like I did. Of course it could just be the sun glinting off your bumper as they drive away in your car. . . Either way, if it turns out they really don't want to talk, you can always text them.

Summer break is that time of year when I am reminded of why we need to pay teachers more. If for no other reason than they are required to have conversations with our children during the school year, that we do not want to have. Over the summer vacation, we get to have those conversations. All the time.

“Mom, did you know that someone buys a Barbie every 3 seconds.”
“Really? How do you know that?”
“I read it.”
“Where?”
“The Bathroom Reader for kids. But I wasn’t in the bathroom when I read it.”

I know it is tough on teachers to compete with the media and all of the technology that is incorporated into everyday life.

“Mom, did you know that if our body did not produce mucus, our stomach lining would begin eating itself, and we would die! So snot is actually good for us.”
“Wow, did you learn that at school?”
“No. Cartoons.”

I think kids are so distracted in these fast and ever-changing times that it is hard to keep their attention.

Sluuuuurp, Sluuuuuurpp, sluuuurrrrpppppp.
“Son, what are you doing?”
“Huh?”
“What are you doing? You were making a weird noise, how were you making it?”
“Oh, that. That was just me squishing my spit.”

Part of the problem with our culture is that everyone is always trying to one-up each other to shock and disturb. It is a constant problem, even in families.

“Mom, I read about a guy who eats 2 pounds of metal a day.”
“Why?”
“So that he could break a world record. He ate the two pounds a day, until he ate a whole plane!”
“How does his body handle it?”
“He has a genetic mutation in his stomach lining that allows him to swallow metal and not get sick. Isn’t that cool?”
“Um, I guess.”
“Mom, if you could eat 2 pounds of metal a day what would you eat?”
“I don’t think I would. I don’t want to.”
“Well if I had a special and unique talent, I wouldn’t waste it like Mom would. I would eat a light pole.”
“Why?”
“It’s for training. I would work up to eating a helicopter, but not one that was moving.”

Then the little one, who had been listening quietly the whole time, said: “Well, I would eat the whole world. Then when I pooped, you could see it from space!”

Sometimes, it doesn’t seem like they are learning anything.

“Mom, do you know what the secret ingredient in Coca-cola is?”
“No.”
“It is called 7X. But no one knows what 7X is because it is a secret.”
“Yeah, I heard on the news about a secretary who tried to sell the secret formula a few years back, I wonder if she knows what the secret ingredient is.”
“That is the problem with knowledge, it just gets out,” he said.
Then I tried for sarcasm, “Yeah, I guess it is better to lock it up and not let anyone know what you learned. Keep all your smarts to yourself.”
“Mom, that is weird, that is like giving a thief all your money so that he doesn’t steal it.”

I guess they are learning something after all.

I read a parenting book that said it is important to keep the lines of communication open with your kids and a good place to talk to them is in the car.

“Mom,” my sweet-faced little boy questioned from the backseat.
“Yes,” I answered just as sweetly.
“Do you know what boogers are?”
“Uhhhh?”
“Nose poop!” he shouted excitedly.

Yes, my kids and I have some of our best talks while driving down the road.

“Mom?”
“What dear?” I say in my best June Cleaver voice.
“What does pee taste like?”

Car rides are truly a bonding experience. Your kids have a captive audience and it is easier to hide your vacant expression when you are not facing them. Sometimes I like to eavesdrop on my children’s conversations with one another.

“Turtles do not have hair.”
“They are bald?”
“Yep. No hair at all.”
“Dad must be a turtle then.”

Sometimes when we are driving along we pass a location of interest—like a school or a park or a prison. It is a good starting point for deep and philosophical discussions.

“Mom, do you have to get arrested to see inside the jail?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Why, is it hard to get arrested?”
“Not really.”
“What do you have to do to get arrested?”
“Naughty things.”
“Like not eating your carrots?”
“Yes.”

You can find out a lot about your kids just by talking to them.

“Mom, I like everything about you. I like the way you smell too. Except your feet. They stink.”

You can learn about their hopes and dreams.

“Mom, I want to be a shark for Christmas.”
“A shark? For Christmas?”
“Yes. A Christmas shark. I know just what I want it to look like.”
“Why do you want to be a shark for Christmas?”
“Because no one else is a shark for Christmas.”
“Hmmm . . . .”
“Mom, did you know that sharks have to wiggle while they are sleeping, or they will die?!”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, I am going to wiggle always. Because I don’t want to die yet. Not until I am really old like you.”

Besides, it is important to learn what is going on with your kids—they are the future after all. And you need to find out which ones will need money to go to college and which ones will only need to save money for an ankle-monitoring type device.