Fitting Motherhood Into Your Graduation Plans: Help Me Be the Most Likely to Succeed!

The Circle of Moms website posed an interesting question this week: “If you were giving a commencement speech, what’s one piece of advice you’d give to young women who want to include motherhood in their futures?” I thought about it, and threw my answer into the ring. You can go vote for it on the site…I’m not sure what I would win, but it would be fun to just pretend I’m the most popular singer on American Idol. You can identify my comment by my name (Kelly Suellentrop), but here is what I wrote:

Motherhood is not an either/or situation. You don’t have to be either a mother or a professional, either a mother or a follower of your passion, either a mother or yourself. You can be a mother AND all of these things, for motherhood is a job that coexists with every other aspect of your life from the moment you hear your baby’s heartbeat for the first time. It is not always a peaceful coexistence, but it is almost always one that helps put everything in perspective. It is a forgiving job and one that allows you endless opportunities to get it right. It is the only job from which you can not be fired. Yet it is also the only job you can never quit, even though there are days when you will want to. It is the hardest and the easiest thing you will ever do with your life all at once. And the fruits of this labor will dwarf all other accomplishments you ever achieve; but their mere presence will also make all those other accomplishments that much sweeter, knowing your greatest achievements in life are proud that you are their mother.

Oh, and you may as well accept that the chances you will end up with a minivan are pretty good. It’s really not that bad.

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Abercrombie’s CEO Doesn’t Bother Me…But His Cologne Still Does

Many of you may already be aware of a story that recently made the news concerning Mike Jeffries, the CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch. I briefly made mention of it in my last post as a passing aside, but I have been thinking more about it since. In case you missed what all the hullabaloo was about, Jeffries and his company are accused of not carrying clothes above a size 10 because he wants to target cool, attractive consumers. This statement would suggest that Jeffries does not believe anyone larger could be considered cool or attractive. And in case you didn’t make that inference, he pretty much spells it out that is indeed what he believes.

Well, as you can imagine, this whole thing unleashed the virtual ire of bloggers everywhere. (To be fair, our ires aren’t very tightly leashed to begin with.) This was perfect fuel for Jen over at People I Want to Punch in the Throat. You can be as sure as the sky is blue that the Huffington Post had a take on it…and another one. One of the best beat-downs (albeit a restrained and intelligent beat-down) came from my friend Nicole at Here’s the Diehl. The consensus: people are outraged.

But you know what? I’m not outraged. In fact, I would even go so far as to say I think it is great that he said it. More people should be like Mike Jeffries. Actually, let me amend that statement: more CEOs should be like Mike Jeffries.

The world of capitalism has provided a practically infinite number of places I can spend my money. There are billions of pieces of clothing for sale all around the world, and thanks to Jeffries’ transparency about his disgusting view of what is good business practice and his sad, unfulfilled view of humanity, he just made my shopping trip that much shorter. I never again have to consider giving his company my money when anyone in my family needs a new outfit. And the way I see it, if more company CEOs were more brutally honest about their own views of potential consumers, I could even more drastically narrow down the number of places I patron. I mean, wouldn’t it be nice to know that most of your dollars went to companies whose goals mirrored your own? I for one would love to support businesses who aim to better the human experience in some way or another. But if you are the kind of person whose priority is looking cooler at the expense of another’s self worth, it is nice to know that Jeffries has molded the perfect store for you.

Furthermore, I would also like to thank Jeffries for making my job as a parent easier. With a daughter who is wading into the outer banks of the fast-moving current of fashion, I know the time may soon come when she cares about brand names. When she is pestering me to buy her this “outfit” from Abercrombie & Fitch,

photo from abercrombie.com

 I won’t have to annoy her with the obvious reasons for saying no (1. that someone has again mistaken some obviously uncomfortable underwear for swimwear, and 2. that there is no possible scenario in which I would willingly fork over $198 + tax for her to look like she got interrupted halfway through getting dressed to go scatter chicken feed from her satchel on the family farm). Now I have moral ground. All I will have to tell my daughter is that our family doesn’t give money to companies who place value on people based on how their appearances fit into a predetermined mold. And my daughter will understand, because even at the age of eight, she already knows that’s not cool. Then again, Jeffries and I seem to have very different ideas of what is cool.

I doubt that any of the recent criticism of him is phasing Jeffries, including mine. I am actually quite certain he does not want my money anyway. While I have always been slim (aside from say, oh, the years of 2005 to 2010 when I was growing babies and living off the extra blubber they brought with them), I was never drawn to Abercrombie & Fitch, even as a teen. Part of that could be because my parents’ unwavering “thriftiness” inevitably taught me that brands weren’t all that important. But it could also be because the image the store put out to the world subliminally told me I wasn’t wanted there. They were just another cool kid to me; and I may have been skinny, but I wasn’t cool. Nowadays, I am slim again, and pretty popular around the schoolyard, thanks to my very local smash hit video, “My Van is Stacked.” But I heard a rumor that A&F clothing spontaneously combust if you get behind the wheel of a minivan, so I probably don’t make the target customer list. I also feel certain that Jeffries wouldn’t even want my children as customers. While it is still a bit too early in the game to know which rung of the social ladder they will end up on, I have a suspicion that my daughter may not blossom into the body type of the prized A&F prototype. See, my daughter looks very much like her father…she is also built like him. And it’s a good thing, too, because it turns out that my husband makes very beautiful girls. But her broad shoulders and wider hips that sometimes struggle to fit into the clothes cut to fit tiny little girl frames might just have to wear an extra-large someday. And I’ll be damned if I give one cent to a company that says she’s only worthy of their clothes until she outgrows what they see as acceptable sizes. Consequently, I also won’t buy A&F clothes for my son, who is built tall and lean and may very well one day have the abs like the naked models who are supposed to be selling clothing. Because I’ll be damned if I give one cent to a company that tells him that his only worth lies in the fact that he does fit into what they see as acceptable sizes.

So hey, Mr. Jeffries, it’s no skin off my back. I thank you for your honesty, and I heard you loud and clear. You have sincerely done me a huge favor just by being yourself. And I will happily return the favor by keeping my uncool family and our imperfect bodies out of your clothes. That’s American capitalism at its finest.

Now Mike, can we talk about your signature fragrance…

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Ireland, It’s Okay To Be Yourself

I haven’t been giving my blog much love lately. And the fact that many of the blogs I follow have been all up in my inbox recently, posting multiple times a week (some even being brave enough to tackle the “Blog Every Day in May” challenge), has made me feel a scosche inadequate. I really have no excuse…except that I was away, traveling in Ireland. That is so a good excuse.

Scratching Ireland off of my bucket list was exhilarating. Only I have already added it back onto my bucket list, because a week was not enough time to properly spend there, to see all I wanted to see. Just like Lucky Charms, Ireland really is magically delicious. I feel like I ate a whole bowl of it, but now I want to go back and pick out all the marshmallows left behind in the box.

“Random Castle!”

Ireland has to be one of the most breathtakingly gorgeous countries of the world. Raw yet refined natural landscapes meld with remnants of past civilizations and a national pride born out of respect for both history and the God-given beauty bestowed upon them. The Irish don’t simply tear down  what is old to begin anew; they either maintain it for posterity with diligence and attention to detail, or simply let the impression that remains exist among what continues to thrive and grow. My husband, who works for a window manufacturer, marveled at the quality of workmanship in the homes we saw that had to have housed generations upon generations. And as we drove across the country, it became a sort of game to call out “Random Castle!” every time we saw a ruin amidst a neighborhood of houses or atop a small hill, surrounded by green pastures…or next to a petrol station.

Gazing at the beautiful mounds of the Gap of Dunloe while listening to John Mayer’s “Your Body is Wonderland” just seems wrong

Yet there was one thing missing as we traversed the Technicolor green landscapes, populated with sheep, cows, and rainbow painted cottages. There we were, feeling very “local” driving on the opposite side of the road and the opposite side of the car, taking in the beauty of Ireland. All we needed was some good Irish music to complete the mood. I turned on the radio, and out comes one of Rhianna’s crappy monotone songs. Yeah, no. Next station: Nickelback. Next station: “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Seriously? Is there not ONE station in Ireland that plays local music? The answer is no. Their radio waves are pretty well dominated by American music. Well, that kind of killed the mood. So we listened to Mumford & Sons on my husband’s phone. Okay, so technically Mumford & Sons is from London. But same side of the pond. I’m counting it.

Music was not the only aspect of American culture to invade Ireland. Of course there were smatterings of our good old fast food restaurants about the country. Subway and Burger King seemed to be favorites. But the kicker for me was walking past this old, gorgeous feat of architecture in Dublin and suddenly getting a whiff of something that made me concerned I was about to be pick-pocketed by a swarm of fourteen-year-old hooligans trying to impress a giggling gaggle of scantily clad middle school girls (yes, sadly, even Irish girls dress like o’tramps). You know the smell I’m talking about. It is the smell that can actually offend all five of your senses every time you go the mall. That beautiful old building housed an Abercrombie & Fitch. I was embarrassed to be an American. So far, my country was being represented in Ireland by Rhianna, fast food, and Abercrombie & Fitch. (The last of which is particularly hard to swallow after recently reading an article where company CEO Mike Jefferies admits to not carrying larger sizes because he wants to cater his clothes to the “cool kids,” and he doesn’t feel larger women in particular can be cool. Hey, I guess it’s his prerogative. The way I see it, it just makes it that much easier for the rest of us to spot all the a-holes. They will be the ones wearing Abercrombie & Fitch.)

Then, in a gift shop, I saw these:

Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe the Irish are trying to pass off their own versions of He-Man and Gene Simmons. It’s so blatant, it’s not even funny.

And then there was this at the Murphy’s Centra grocery store:

American style. I am not an expert on pandas, but they don’t strike me as having talent to make peanut butter. Now Peter Pan, he’s got mad skills. I think I’m going to trust the flavor palate of the guy who undoubtedly has a permanent case of pixie dust induced munchies over an animal whose ideal snack is bamboo. I’ll call the panda when I need new wood floors.

But the piece of American pop culture to beat all others invading Ireland was this bag we received after purchasing some souvenirs in a gift shop in the town of Adare, known as “the prettiest town in Ireland:”

Take a good look. Does that charicature look familiar? I thought it did as the cashier handed it to me, but I quickly brushed the thought aside. I mean, it couldn’t be. Why WOULD it be? It just doesn’t make any sense for it to be. So we walked around the town a bit. But I just couldn’t let it go. I examined the bag more closely, trying to read the words that were printed backwards. Winning…I got tiger blood man. Holy O’Guiness! It was, in fact, CHARLIE SHEEN on my gift bag…from a tiny souvenir shop…in a small little town…in Ireland. Well, I just couldn’t let this go, so we went back to the shop. I had to get to the bottom of this. I very politely asked the cashier why in the world she had Charlie Sheen on her bags. She immediately laughed and said I was the second person that day to ask her about it. And frankly, she had no idea why. She didn’t even know who Charlie Sheen was. When she found out that he was Martin Sheen’s son, she did tell us that the Irish LOVE Martin Sheen. They are always giving him awards. I laughed and broke the news to her that Charlie is, well, kind of a horrible person. She laughed so hard, and decided that maybe she should stop using the bags, in case it might offend anyone. But she planned to use it at the smoke shop she owned down the street. According to her, “we’re a bit politically incorrect down there anyway.” Honestly, it was one of the best parts of the trip.

But the whole thing begged the question: Ireland, why do you feel the need to assimilate so much of American culture into your own? And if you are going to continue, at least import the good stuff. I mean, it was a little disconcerting to hear “Regulators” by Warren G on the Galway Bay ferry ride over to the Aran Islands, which hold close to traditional Irish culture, still primarily speak Irish Gaelic, and only recently installed one ATM at the small grocery store on the largest island, Inishmore.

If anything, America should adopt more of Irish culture. Here are a few suggestions I think we should implement:

1. Mansize Kleenex. They were enormous. And if you could realize how many Kleenex we go through at my house, thanks to my husband and his fog-horn nose blowing, you would understand why this was such a big deal.

2. Bottle Openers in the Bathroom. I kid you not. This picture was taken in the bathroom of our hotel in Dublin. The Irish really do drink beer anywhere. Cheers.

3. Public Holy Water Fountains. Because sometimes waiting for a priest to do an exorcism just won’t do.

4. Gaelic Football. It’s not soccer. It’s not rugby. It’s not football. My best guess is that it’s like those games you played as a kid where everyone made the rules up as you went along. Now it’s okay to touch the ball with your hands…You can run with it, but only if two people are chasing you…First you have to kick it, then catch it, then pass it…You can score by getting a goal, or by getting it through two poles…Seriously. We went to one of these games, and couldn’t figure it out for the life of us. But I still can’t figure out American football, and Gaelic football players wear tight shorts. I vote for Gaelic football.

5. Cute Old Men Strolling/Riding Bikes/Walking Dogs. These guy are everywhere in Ireland. Everywhere. And one thing you might not know about me is that I am a tad obsessed with cute old men, especially if they are riding bikes, walking dogs, or strolling in little Irish tweed caps. All I wanted was to take one photo of a cute old man in Ireland, but I just couldn’t find the right moment…mostly because said old men would have totally seen me taking a random picture of them, and then I would feel like a weird creeper. The above photo was my one chance of going unnoticed. This cute old guy was walking his dog, who wasn’t on a leash. It was perfect. But just as I went to snap the photo, the dog shot ahead into the street and almost got hit by a car. Happy ending for the dog (since the car stopped in time), but sad ending for me, who only got this picture of a cute old guy thinking he’s about to see his dog meet an untimely death. I will say that it was partly worth it to hear him properly scold the dog afterwards with his jaunty Irish accent…and dropping f-bombs like nobody’s business. But I move that we need more of these cute old men on the streets of America. Here, they are all behind the wheels of cars, decreasing the cuteness factor, as well as the safety for all drivers in the vicinity. I may try to start an organization that works to put new shiny bikes in the hands of  cute old men everywhere. It would be a step closer to my utopia.

Speaking of driving, there is one American thing I would suggest the Irish adopt: our roadways. Irish roads, traffic lanes, road signs, and lack there of are ridiculous. Don’t believe me? Here is a video of us driving:

Other than that, I really think Ireland is just fine being itself. It is a country rich in history with unparellelled beauty. I hope to return someday. But next time I will know to bring my own Irish music from home.

 

 

 

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The Pleasure Who’s Name May Not Be Spoken (Or “How I Learned to Stop Feeling Guilty and Love Reality TV”): A Guest Post from “Dances Like a White Girl”

I am happy to report that I am really super busy with no time for blogging at the moment. Why does that make me happy? Because it gives me a reason to have my buddy IrishWriterGirl75 guest post on my blog. She has some wicked talent ya’ll. Enjoy!!

The Pleasure Who’s Name May Not Be Spoken (Or “How I Learned to Stop Feeling Guilty and Love Reality TV”) by IrishWriterGirl75

Though it has been noted for centuries that those of the Catholic or Jewish faith have the market cornered on guilt, the notion of predestination in the Presbyterian doctrine evokes nothing short of crippling self-awareness and over-analyzation of every waking action. “Did I remember to tell everyone at the potluck that there are pistachios in the Watergate Salad?” “Did I sit rigidly enough on that hard pew during the sermon or did I kind of sway when we sang “The Church’s One Foundation?” “Will I ever learn all the words to “God Be With You” even though I heard it, like, 250,000 times? And will there be a quiz?” The most anxiety inducing facet is, of course, no matter what you do, or don’t, those who have been chosen to go to Heaven have been picked long before they were born, so… good luck with that. It would be just like a bunch of suspicious Scots from the Highlands (which are cold, I mean blustery cold, made even colder with no leggings to wear under kilts) to create this belief. With that said, I’m still proud of my heritage and have really fond memories of our sweet, small, limestone church in my tiny hometown. But that guilt…well, as they saw about polyester and insulated casserole carriers, it travels well.

I have the kind of life that really, I shouldn’t have to escape from, and that makes me feel guilty. I have a great family, terrific job, supportive friends, an education, a good place to live, and plenty (if not too much, as evidenced by my scale) to eat. But I am also blessed (cursed) with a vivid and overactive imagination. And, in all fairness, I have the kind of job that deals with human emotions and reactions, that it’s like having someone vomit all over your shoes, sometimes on multiple occasions over the course of one day. Though I love to read, sometimes I can’t focus on a story, no matter how good it is. That is when I turn to my vice. Reality TV.

O.K., here goes. My show, like me, is off kilter and, quite frankly, appeals to the 16-21 year old demographic for squealy, dramatic girls and immature, dateless 25-45 year old men. And I judge not, for apparently, for these are my people. My show, like “Urkel” in days of old, emerges on Friday night at primetime and provides cheesy entertainment, met with chortles and eye rolling. But, also like “Urkel” (yeah, I know, it’s “Family Matters” for any sticklers out there), it’s got heart. And eye candy (draw your own conclusions). Since I’m not getting paid to endorse the show, I won’t do it any favors by saying the name, but I will describe it thusly : Three guys of varying maturity levels are locked, on purpose, in places reputed to be haunted, or at least condemned, over night. Their mission: to prove the existence of ghosts, and their own equilibrium (they fall down sometimes because, well, it is dark). My admission: I never miss an episode and I own two seasons of the show. As in, they are part of my DVD collection. The classiness just won’t stop. I should not like this. But I do. Therein lies the guilt.

The lesson in all of this you ask? Our society is full of ways to self-destruct, as well as ways to positively rebuild what has been lost. There’s only room for feelings of guilt, loss, and shame in one these options. As for me, I will fight feeling bad for destroying my brain cells with sugar-coated shows. After all, I could run into someone from the show “on the other side” someday, and we would have to have something to talk about. Ahhh, justification…

IrishWriterGirl75 is new to the blogging world, and she muses over on Dances Like a White Girl. She is smart, funny, and has some mad writing skills…oh, and she does in fact dance like a white girl. I’ve seen it. True story. She also has pretty much the easiest and best laugh in the world. So head on over to her blog, and check her out! 

OH, and she (along with this other really cool blogger I know who happens to be me) is also featured in the best book on the market for nursing mothers, Milk Diaries, written by the talented Maggie Singleton. It is available on Amazon!

Smells Like First Communion

In a little over two weeks, I will be the mother of a child old enough to ingest the body and blood of Jesus Christ. I also like to call this the legal Catholic drinking age. First Communion is a BIG deal. Not only does it signify the point at which a child is finally able to  actively participate in all parts of the Mass, but it’s also the first of only two times a girl can wear a veil in public without people thinking she is a deranged lunatic. (Actually, Grace isn’t wearing a veil; she’s wearing a wreath of flowers. And it was totally her choice…because it was the only choice I mentioned to her. I was afraid that if she looked too much like a child bride, my husband would move up her nunnery induction date from the day she turns sixteen to, well,  tomorrow.)

We’ve had First Communion Fever at our house lately. I’ve been running around like a mad woman, prepping for the big day. Order wreath. Check. Send out invitations. Check. Plan food for the party. Check. Figure out the design for the cake. Check. Meet with seamstress about G’s dress. Check. Help G with her banner. Check. Meet with banner committee to put together the class banner for church. Check. Find shoes. Check…oh crap, too big. Uncheck.

Grace, on the other hand, has been doing the prep that really matters, as evidenced by the fact that she asked me to “play church” the other day. All I have to say is, I’d join her parish in a heartbeat.

First of all, any church where the priest wears a leopard print Snuggie can COUNT ME IN. I bet it would be perfectly acceptable for me to wear my pajama jeans to Sunday Mass.

Mass began with the first reading from the Book of Mom’s Sleepy Time Tales of The Story of Three Billy Goats Gruff (cue the Church Lady: “Was it a troll, or could it be SATAN?”), followed by a second reading of a poem about band-aids. Then we were treated to a poem called “Chester” from the Gospel of Shel Silverstein, after which Grace gave her homily: “I have no idea what that’s about.” Honest, simple, and short. My kind of homily. Even Michael found himself entertained, which rarely happens with him at church.

They should really think about replacing a few of the pews with a row of these at our church.

I was feeling so good about how quickly this whole thing was playing out that I didn’t even mind when Fr. Grace started passing around the collection basket…and expected me to fork over some real money. I gave her a quarter. Just consider me the poor woman who cast in all that she had, unlike the rich who only gave from their surplus. Or something like that.

I think there are some peeps who need to step up their contribution to the collection baskets. A plastic bowl full of stale bread hosts (that were put in the freezer “so they would be hard”), water with red food coloring, a bath poof for the holy water, a random scrap with what I think says Alleluia, and an altar stained with craft paint.

Next it was time for the Eucharist. When Grace informed me that she was “really good at turning water into blood and bread into body,” I made the mistake of assuming she was pretending to have those skills. When I stated what I thought we both knew was a fact, that  only a real priest can perform the Eucharist, church suddenly took a turn for the ugly. The poor thing was heartbroken, and she started crying at the realization that despite her little prayer, all that sat on the table was ordinary bread and red water. I blame her Catholic school. Hello?? Isn’t this what I’m paying you to teach her? I expect a deduction on my next tuition payment. Don’t laugh at me like you think I’m joking. I’m not. …Whatever.

I was finally able to get the “mass” back on track by agreeing with her that her prayer at the very least made the bread and water holy. It’s debatable, but I had other things to do. Let’s get the show on the road. So Michael and I processed up to receive Communion from the Snuggie-clad Grace. Then we sat down while she sprinkled us with holy water from a bath poof.

Are you ready to get wet?

Fr. Grace was just about to offer the final blessing when Michael realized that Grace never got to take Communion. So he offered to be the priest. What a sweet and kind little brother, moved by the Holy Spirit no doubt. But as he put on the Snuggie, he let out an evil laugh and said, “I want de blood…he, he, he, he.” Typical. Then he took all the money OUT of the collection basket, handed me a quarter and said, “Body of Christ.”

Is this the face of a spiritual leader?

I think Catholic school tuition will be well worth it for him.

A Suburban Horror Story: The Return Chuck E.

When most people hear the name Chucky, two things come to mind: a demonic doll who terrorizes mankind and a mouse who pushes pizza and skee ball. Or maybe they are actually one in the same! GASP!

Look away…it’s terrifying

Think about it. Have you ever seen them in the same place at the same time? And they have the exact same M.O. They both worm their way into our lives through our kids as if they are harmless byproducts of childhood fun, only to later strangle the life out of us and our well-meaning desire to make our young ones happy.

A disgust for Chucky from the Child’s Play horror movie franchise is normal; but what do I have against Chuck E. Cheese, you say? Many of you already know my seedy background with this over-sized cartoon mascot. But if you don’t, I suggest you first read my post, “Chuck E. Cheese Could Have Been Your Father,” before proceeding. Everything will become crystal clear after that…I promise. Don’t worry. I will wait for you…

…I know, right? What can I say? I’m blessed. Anyhoo…

So here is the next chapter in the ongoing horrific saga of me and Chuck E. He’s stalking me. I am completely convinced of it. I thought I had managed to escape from his clutches oh so many years ago, but I didn’t count on having children…children he would end up using as pawns enabling him to come back into my life and terrorize me.

It is true that since becoming a mother, we have visited Chuck E. Cheese restaurants on numerous occasions, mostly for school fundraiser nights and a few birthday parties. But I honestly thought that Chuck E never noticed me, that the wear and tear of motherhood and almost two decades had rendered me unrecognizable to him. But I should have known he wouldn’t show his cards that early in the game. Silently, and unbeknownst to me, he patiently endeared himself to my two kids with each passing visit. A high-five here. A free extra token there. How were they to know they were playing right into his grubby, freakishly large paws?

And it worked. About a month or so ago, these words oozed from my daughter’s lips: “I want to have my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese this year.”

Despite the many, many, many other options I offered to her, she was staunch in her desire. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, she begged. Fine. I am not a victim. If this is the game you’re playing you sick bastard, I’m in. I’m not scared of you anymore. Me OR my 6 foot 6 enormously giant husband who once ripped a life-sized wrought iron wagon wheel lawn ornament straight from the ground. We will see who is going to be squeaking in their boots.

After trepidatiously making the reservation for the party, I tried to calm my nerves by being rational about the situation. That was a long time ago, Kelly. He has probably changed. Certainly a nationwide franchise wouldn’t risk their reputation or the threat of lawsuits by keeping a sleazebag of a mouse around for so many years. Would they? So I decided to do some research of my own. What I found wasn’t pretty. I should warn you; the following pictures may be disturbing. Please make sure your children aren’t present, and I apologize in advance for scarring for life the child that resides in your heart. But the truth must be known…

Are you really surprised? I mean, the guy has spent over 35 years unfazed by the background noise of arcade games and corny song parodies. This also explains why you feel hung over after leaving the place. I bet he circulates it through the vents.

I swear I’ve heard him whisper “Make it rain” when he throws out those free tickets.

See? SEEEEEE??!! I TOLD you he was a creep! I wish I didn’t feel so justified.

From the looks of the fashions in this picture, the harassment has been happening for decades.

The worst part is that it seems his girlfriend Helen Henny has no idea of his evil alter ego.

On the day of the party, my guard was up. I secretly took vengeful satisfaction when Chuck E. emerged to greet our party and my daughter’s friends ran up, encircled him, and started poking and prodding his mouse parts. My mouth mumbled a dutiful but half-hearted, “Girls, don’t assault Chuck E.” However, my mind was screaming, “NOT SO FUN TO BE GROPED, IS IT, YOU ANTHROPOMORPHIC CREEP?”

Payback

But Chuck E. knew where to hit back where it hurt: my kids wanted a picture with him. Now he would forever be a part of our sacred family memories on film. I could feel a panic attack begin raging through my body as my finger pressed down on the shutter release.

Wipe that grin off your face, you dirty rodent.

And he wouldn’t just leave us be after that. He insisted on being part of that special moment, when we sang happy birthday to my daughter and watched her blow out her candle. I felt violated by his blatant photo-bombing.

Look at him, staring right at me. He knows what he is doing. He is trying to see the fear in my eyes.

But it was almost over. The party was nearing the end. At one point, my daughter came over to me, looked at Chuck E. and said, “Don’t worry, mom. I’m sure it’s a totally different guy in that costume than the time he creeped you out.” Those were her exact words. My keenly perceptive, incredibly astute daughter said that during her birthday party. Listen to the children, they say. She was right. I finally felt like I could breathe again. I was being silly. Here I was giving the stink eye to someone who was probably not even born when that long ago Chuck E. made a pass at me. I needed to let it go. Besides, it was time for my daughter to take her turn in the ticket blaster machine, and for Chuck E. to make his exit back to the break room.

The sun came out again, and in its glowing rays, Chuck E. Cheese didn’t seem like such a menacing place after all. Everyone was smiling. We had made it. We had survived a birthday party at the place where a kid can be a kid. We made it out alive.

I stood among the group of 8 year olds crowded around the ticket blaster, watching my daughter try to ineptly grab tiny tickets flying around her. At first, I thought some of the air had escaped the machine, until I recognized the familiar stench of Limburger breath linger on the back of my neck for just a moment before it disappeared into a purple door adorned with the sign “Employees Only.”

My son, gluttonous for his own turn in the ticket blaster, turned to me and said, “I want to have my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, too!” 

My nightmare continues…

* Disclaimer: While based on true events, this post is entirely for entertainment purposes only. At no time did anyone employed by or associated with Chuck E. Cheese restaurants harass or behave inappropriately toward me, my family, or our party guests. In fact, I would actually recommend having a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese (did I just say that?????). Despite it not being MY favorite place to go as an adult, it was a very easy and relatively inexpensive experience. In fact, we ended up having to cancel our party at the last-minute due to an incredibly ridiculous and unexpected snowstorm (at the END of MARCH?), and the manager was extremely understanding and did not penalize us at all. Everything, including our bonus tokens for originally scheduling on a Sunday, were transferred to our rescheduled date (which was not a Sunday) with no hassle. Our party attendant was attentive, easy to work with, and she even ended up giving my kids bonus tickets for no reason. It was literally the easiest birthday party I have ever thrown (see my Birthday Party Planning Junkie post to understand what I mean). All in all, happy kid and happy mom. As for the mouse…he was completely harmless.

Photo Sources (in order of appearance): gamingbolt.com/chuckecheese.com; fark.com; outpost81.com; nursethehateblogspot.com; dulutheast86.com; fanpop.com. The last three photos are mine.

Star of Video and Print, But Still Just an Acceptably Mediocre Mom

Whew!

It has been something else around here. Thanks to my minivan music video, this blog received more hits in a few days than probably the last two years combined. Next, the Life Sherpa of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch devoted his entire column to my post “Apparently All-Inclusive Attitudes Aren’t Part of the Resort Package,” where I took issue with an earlier piece he had written chiding parents of young children. And then he went and briefly mentioned me again in this Sunday’s column. It appears that a younger woman offering to buy an older man a beer is newsworthy. I will take it, especially considering the fact that when my version of “Texaco, Texaco over the hills to Mexico” differed from my daughter’s, she told me that now they sing it different from how we did in “the olden days.”

I feel a little like a celebrity. I mean, the video has caught on like virtual wildfire. My daughter said  that her friend told her that her older brother told her that practically the entire 6th grade class has seen it because a boy in their 2nd grade class showed it to HIS older brother who then showed it to all his friends when they came over. Um, did you follow that? Basically, I’m the Justin Bieber of the elementary school. Not quite Taylor Swift yet, but give it time. All I know is that I’m kind of a big deal in the parking lot at pick up time. And my daughter has been dubbed “famous” for her starring role in the video. Part of me hopes this doesn’t make her too popular though, as I have decided it is better for my kids to be nerds. Not tortured outcasts, mind you. I simply want them to have just enough social clout that people find them likable, but not enough that I will have to spend my Friday nights waiting up for them…because they will be at home watching 80′s movie classics and eating cheese balls with their nerd friends.

SUPERSTAR!

But these past weeks have also taught me that I am semi-uncomfortable with semi-fame. Compliments are like a funky little form of sadomasochism. They make me feel good, but at the same time, a part of me feels very uncomfortable. My immediate way of dealing with compliments is to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal: Oh, the video wasn’t really that hard to make. They have programs that any dummy can use. OR I’m just weird like that. I don’t know why I spend my time doing this stuff. OR Thanks, but it was just a fun little family project. The kids were just happy to be hams in front of the camera. In reality, I do spend a lot of time and effort on most things dealing with this blog. And I am over-Saturn’s-moon-slap-me-jazzed-do-a-high-kick-yell-SUPERSTAR-like-Mary-Catherine-Gallagher-happy when people respond to it in a positive way.

Then I got an email from a friend I went to high school with. This is what she said:

I just have to tell you that the reason I had been thinking about you is because in between all the mom stuff, house stuff, grocery shopping, etc (YOU KNOW!), I feel like I can get extremely short and cranky with my family and when I read your blogs and posts, I am truly inspired by your zest (decided to use a good word like that, with your love for words and all) for life and how much fun you seem to have.  I seriously think of you and think of how lucky your kids are and your husband is and how much fun you have, while still being a great mom and teaching your kids what is right and wrong.

First off, that email made my day, more than the excitement of all the hub-bub that had been surrounding my blog at the time. To know that something I enjoy doing somehow helps other people navigate through their lives in even the smallest way is the gold medal of compliments. But here comes that flip side of accepting something nice said about you. She painted such a glowing reflection of me, a reflection I feel on most days I can’t claim to be mine. I joked with her that while reading my blog might help her stop being cranky and short with her children, I am usually JUST THAT with my own children while WRITING THE VERY BLOG she feels inspired by. Wow. I felt a little like a fraud. I stumble through motherhood just like everyone else; I just usually choose to only write about the more lighthearted moments of it. I don’t like to complain too much in public, mostly because I have little patience for others who do. But in doing this, am I unintentionally portraying a false image of my life? Am I somehow making other mothers say things to themselves like, “Why can’t I be more like THAT kind of parent?” Trust me, I am no model mother…nor do I want to be.

But I had to realize that wasn’t the point of her compliment. And you know what? My kids ARE lucky to have me: an imperfect mother who loves them like no one else can and who lets them star in music videos. And every mom who reads this has children who are lucky to have her: another imperfect mother who loves them like no one else can and who sometimes needs to read about the funny, heart-warming moments of my life to remind her that she has moments just like that in hers.

Needless to say, it has been nice that things have settled down a little around here, at least on the blog front…because my darned life won’t take a break long enough to let me ogle my site stats to find out exactly how many people have been reading my posts or let me plot my next strategy for taking over the viral world. In the meantime, here is a link to a post by Rage Against the Minivan that will make all parents feel better about striving for acceptable mediocrity most of the time. Happy Easter!

The Slacker Mom’s Guide to Dying Easter Eggs with Small Children

Um yeah, ours don’t look anything like this.

My Minivan Isn’t Cool, But My Music Video Is

It has been a long time coming, but the deed is done. I told my husband to just look at it like ripping off a band-aid. He still wants to throw up a little in his mouth every time he sees it, but I am not going to pretend I feel anything but that a destiny in my life has been fulfilled.

We got a minivan.

image from http://www.thetruthaboutcars.com/2010/09/the-booth-babe-chronicles-can-a-minivan-be-cool/

For some reason, society likes to brand this parental milestone as the epitome of being un-hip, or that it is the final nail in the coffin containing a person’s sense of individual self. But I think that is just plain ridiculous. What WOULD be ridiculous is trying to deny the fact that I AM a parent who needs to take my children into consideration with every single decision I make, including what car I drive. Not that I am saying a minivan is necessarily always the best choice, but it was for our family. I like having the extra room to cart around toys, groceries, Girl Scout supplies, projects, and every other random thing that might need to be transported. I like that we will be more comfortable on road trips, and the kids can sit in separate rows if they start getting on each other’s nerves. I like that I now have enough seating to carpool or let my kids spontaneously bring a friend home to play after school without it involving a scheduling chart to see who can drop off and pick up when. And I like that I now drive a big, sturdy car that gives me a snowball’s chance in hell should I mingle steel with some birdbrain who is texting behind the wheel of an SUV.

I am also not the kind of person who determines how cool she is by the kind of car she drives. But I am the kind of person who has probably never really been cool anyway. So with that said, I will say loud and proud: I LOVE MY MINIVAN!

In fact, I love my minivan so much that a regular old blog post didn’t seem enough to announce its advent into my life. As I searched for inspiration, the same line kept popping into my head…I like minivans and I can not lie…

So without further ado, I give you the very first “Are You Finished Yet?” Music Video! (And because it is true that white girls really shouldn’t rap AND Windows Movie Maker is not really meant for high quality song recording capabilities, I have provided lyrics below lest it really sounds like the horrid mumblings that it felt like coming from my mouth.)

A big thank you goes out to my husband and kids for spending pretty much an entire Saturday shooting the video and dealing with this first-time actor/director. Now I know how Tom Hanks feels. Thanks also to Sir Mix-a-Lot for introducing a song into our cultural fabric that is always ripe for a good “Weird Al-esque” parody. And thanks to Weird Al for just being Weird Al.

My Van is Stacked

Oh my gawd, Becky. Look at her van. It is so mini. She looks like one of those carpool kid’s moms. Who understands those snotty kids anyway. They only ride with her because she looks like a total soccer mom. I mean her van. It’s just so mini. I can’t believe it’s so roomy. It’s just parked there. I mean, it’s gross. Look, she’s just so suburban.

I like minivans and I can not lie.

You other mother’s can’t deny

That when a mom drives in with some automatic doors

And her seats fold into the floor

You get jazzed.

If you roll with pizzaz, a minivan’s what you has.

Sittin’ deep in the captains chairs,

With my hat and my uncombed hair,

Oh, honey my pj’s will be hidden,

‘Cuz the windows are tinted.

My hubby tried to warn me that that van I got

Makes me so corny.

Hey girl scout troop there,

You say you wanna get in my van?

Well jump in, jump in

‘Cuz I got the room so you can.

I’ve seen that storage,

To hell with my image.

It’s large, in charge, got the room of a river barge.

I’m tired the too cool moms

Sayin’ SUVs are the bomb.

Take the average mommy and ask her that,

The car’s gotta pack much back.

So mamas (yeah), mamas (yeah),

Does your minivan got the stuff ?(hell yeah)

Then drive it, drive it, drive that van real rough.

My van is stacked! My van is stacked!

I’m sittin’ tall, and big,

From my coffee I take a swig,

I’m ready for carpool, I’m throwin’ the beast in reverse.

But this ain’t no hearse.

Got a back-up camera,

And back, double up, back, back

I ain’t talkin’ ’bout Mustang,

‘Cuz two-door cars can’t do that thang.

You need it real smooth and roomy,

Without that roomy third row,

You look like a bozo squeezin’ kids in like jell-o.

So I’m lookin’ at SUVs,

Gas guzzlin’ monsters, always thirsty.

You can have that Cherokee,

I’ll keep it like a Honda Odyssey.

A word to the non-van sistas, I wanna convert ya,

I won’t push or nag ya,

But I gotta be straight when I say I wanna

Drive on every field trip

Mama’s got it goin’ on,

A lot of milfs won’t like this song.

Housewives go and worry ‘bout their image,

And I’d rather stow and go,

‘Cuz I’m a threat, and set, I need shelving from Target.

So fellas (yeah), fellas (yeah)

If you wanna roll in my Sienna (hell yeah),

Then pop the trunk, fold the seats,

Maybe Dad will get lucky.

My van is stacked! My van is stacked!

Yeah, baby…when it comes to cupholders, I need hella place for my caffeine selection. Two in front, two in back? Ha, ha…only if it’s a two seater.

So your friend she rolls an Enclave,

And her third row seats won’t behave,

But Enclave ain’t got nothin’ cool ‘bout which to rave.

My passengers they don’t want none

Unless there’s leg room hun.

You can lay on down or stand up,

But please don’t throw that ball.

My kids wanna trash that backseat,

And leave their toys and soccer cleats.

So they toss it, and drop it, but I put it in the door pocket.

My kid is being a brat?

Well, I ain’t down with that.

He’s sent to the back and Maroon 5 is jammin’,

And I’m thinkin’ ‘bout slammin’,

The last energy drink inside the dash.

I need a new stash.

To protect my youth, I use my bluetooth,

Don’t text and drive and that’s the truth.

Some knucklehead tried to merge,

‘Cuz he thought my van can’t surge.

His sports car tried to cut me off,

So I gunned it and then turned to scoff.

So drivers if you roll around,

And you wanna drag race throw down,

Find the cow on the rearview mirror,

And wish that you was me.

My van is stacked! My van is stacked!

Roomy in the middle and it’s got much back

Roomy in the middle and it’s got much back

Roomy in the middle and it’s got much back

Roomy in the middle and it’s got much back

*the picture of the river barge in the video was from                       http://www.boldts.net/album/D-RiverBarge.shtml

 

 

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How to Enjoy MonkeeCon on $5 a Day

I survived my first (and likely only) fan convention.

So this happened…

Last summer I posted about my excitement after my husband bought me a ticket to the Davy Jones Memorial Monkees Convention in Newark, New Jersey for our anniversary. Three days of all Monkees, all the time. At first, this sounded wicked awesome. Yet as time went by, I began to become a bit leery. I may be the biggest Monkee fan that anyone who has met me has ever known, but put me up against other Monkee fans, and I probably fall into the lightweight category. After all, you were not going to see me at this convention dressed up as one of the Monkee Men characters, or haggling over the price of an original T.V. Guide with The Monkees on the cover, or waking up at 4 a.m. to be the first one in line to meet Micky or Peter. Nope. I like to think of myself as being able to properly “contain my crazy.” So I was wary of the voodoo that I might encounter at such an event. And then I began wondering why I was going at all.

This feeling of unease was not helped by the fact that any and all communication about and leading up to the convention, well, kind of sucked. Despite there being a webpage and two Facebook pages for the convention, there was not a whole lot of useful information by way of them, most notably a schedule of events. But I tend to be a fairly go-with-the-flow kind of gal, so I trusted that I would have a good time, which was cemented when I found out my friends Hugh, Shannon, and Shannon’s husband Brian would be going as well. At the very least, this could turn out to be a weekend of our own kind of debauchery.

And that is exactly what it ended up being. MonkeeCon tended to be very hot and cold: anything dealing with the celebrities and special guests was muy caliente; anything dealing with the logistics of the convention was an iceberg…like the one that sunk the Titanic. While the idea and intention of the convention was noble, it ended up being one of the most unprofessional events I have ever attended. I won’t go into long and boring details, but the thing that upset me the most was the blatant and unabashed ways in which convention-goers were expected to shell out extra money of which we had not been forewarned. Had we been told up front that it would cost money to see all the celebrities, that certain events would require a cover charge, or that we would have to pay $25 for a program if we wanted to know the schedule of events for a convention we had ALREADY SPENT $200 TO ATTEND (not counting travel and lodging), I would have let it go….because I would have known what I was going into. What was even more shameful is that if people expressed discontent over the lack of communication, they were made to feel guilty since proceeds were going to charity. Well, charity still isn’t an excuse for getting people right where you want them and then bleeding them dry.

Fortunately for us, Hugh, Shannon, Brian, and I were simply content with being there and relishing whatever “free” opportunities came our way. We decided what was worth paying for (an autograph from Micky on a children’s book based on the 1950′s show he starred in as a kid, “Circus Boy”) and what wasn’t (a $12 garden salad from the hotel restaurant, which was the only restaurant within walking distance…thank God for pizza delivery). Then whatever experiences graced us, we welcomed. And some pretty cool stuff ended up happening.

Move over countless rock legends. Diltz has a new muse now.

The first of which was meeting famed celebrity music photographer, Henry Diltz. Most Monkee fans know Diltz because he shot probably 75% of the photos of Micky, Davy, Peter, and Mike that we crushed on in our bedrooms. But he has also snapped the mugs of The Beatles, CSN&Y, Michael Jackson, Led Zepplin, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors and countless others. Oh, and me. Well, my nails, anyway. While Shannon and I were chatting  with him, he commented that he really liked the color of my nail polish, which I later told him was called “Stormy.” He asked if he could photograph my nails. I of course said yes, and then proceeded to let him take a few shots of my hands that were shaking like a Polaroid picture. That moment was only topped when later that weekend, he referred to me as “Stormy.” Ladies and gentlemen, I have been nicknamed by the great Henry Diltz. And my nails might be well on their way to becoming famous and even winning a Grammy someday. I can already hear the opening line of their E! True Hollywood Story: It all began for Stormy and the Phalanges Band with a photograph from a simple point and shoot camera in the Winter of 2013…

Next to Henry Diltz was Gary Strobl, who has done numerous things with The Monkees over the years. He is currently working on a new book about them, and my friends and I had a really great discussion with him about that. We must have had that right balance of fans who would get super jazzed over cool memorabilia without the “I will stalk you on Facebook” mentality, because he offered to show us a copy of one of the Great White Whales of Monkee Junk: The 1969 Tour Program. That may not sound very cool, but it was. The Monkees toured in ’69 after Peter Tork had left the band, and not a whole lot is known about it, besides the fact that they were backed by a funk and soul band known as Sam & The Goodtimers. So it was über cool to see an artifact from that time, along with some photos of the guys I had never seen. That is always a bonus.

The unveiling of the ’69 Tour Program. Have you seen it? I hadn’t seen it. Has anyone seen it? Well guess what…I DID SUCKERS!

Another big highlight for me was the performances throughout the weekend, namely by Robbie Rist (formerly known as Cousin Oliver on the Brady Bunch!), Circe Link, and Christian Nesmith (yes, THAT Nesmith. Papa Nez is really his papa). Public service announcement: check out their stuff; it is the bomb-diggity. Most notable was a performance of a song called Calico Girlfriend that was written and originally sung by some guy who once had amazing sideburns. Don’t tell Nez, but Christian’s and Circe’s rendition takes the cake. Circe’s voice seemed to be born to sing it, plus she did this mesmerizing “swishy-swashy” thing with her hands that made them look like psychedelic tentacles.

Aside from being a metaphorical weekend keg party at which fans could get a good buzz (or sloppy drunk) on copious amounts of memorabilia, celebrity sightings, and performances, the MonkeeCon held a larger purpose. Proceeds went to the Davy Jones Equine Memorial Fund, which raises money to help care for the large herd of beloved horses Davy left behind after his death. And in his absence were his four beautiful daughters, Talia, Sarah, Jessica, and Annabel. Class acts. All four of them. Sweet to anyone who wanted a bit of their time, listening to every story about their father that fans had to offer (Annabel properly enjoyed my story about seeing two girls lick her father’s elbows). During his Q&A session, Micky paid the simple yet eloquent compliment to these girls as well as to Davy: “The measure of a man is his children.” Well, from what I know of his daughters at the convention, Davy’s true legacy has nothing to do with The Monkees, and is much greater than we could have known.

Look how suave I am. I’m not even looking at him. I mean, come on guys…he’s just a person.

Oh yeah, and there were these two guys named Micky Dolenz and Peter Tork there as well. Honestly for me, this convention turned out to be anything but centered around the only two actual Monkees present. And there were a few reasons for that. As I mentioned, it cost money to meet with them, and I have already had that privilege in the past. I was simply content just catching glimpses of them around the hotel, for as I have told my kids on many occasions, you get what you get and you don’t get upset. I guess I figured I hadn’t gotten what I should have though, because I did finally decide to be a sucker and shell out the cash to get Micky’s autograph after all. But only because Hugh found me that “Circus Boy” book I mentioned before. I mean…The Monkees AND children’s literature in one? As someone who still wants to grow up to be an author of children’s books, I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It was like the universe was telling me, “You’ve lived the Monkee dream, kid. Now get going on that literary one.” I consider it an inspirational investment in my future. And it had absolutely NOTHING to do with having him smile at me for ten seconds. I swear.

A signed Diltz photo and a signed “Circus Boy” book. Not a bad haul. Or mini haul. Or two things. Yeah, two things.

Peter and Micky did treat us to a performance, which of course was perfection. But the best part actually happened OFF stage during one of Peter’s solo pieces. As he tore through a blues song, everyone was moved by the spirit to rock out right along with him. And I mean everyone…including a very familiar silhouette standing behind the projection screen off to the right. I knew that Dolenz profile anywhere, and I couldn’t help but feel we were witnessing something special: one band mate genuinely appreciating the talents of his other band mates, not realizing he was broadcasting his admiration for the music to the entire room…

I will seduce you with my monkey pajamas and hypnotic laser eyes..and New Jersey pizza breath

Speaking of admiration, I had my own personal moment of glory while at the convention. Prior to leaving, I had come across this pair of super cute and comfy pajamas that also happened to have adorable little monkeys on them. Kismet? You bet. So I bought them and packed them for the convention. Call me a loser, but you know I looked hot. I am certain of this because of the attention I received when I decided to head down to the lobby with Hugh to catch a late night jam session with The Blue Meanies, a Monkees cover band. Not three seconds after stepping off the elevator, a man walking past said, “Nice pajamas. How can I talk you out of them?” I simply looked over at Hugh and said, “Score one for the monkey pjs.” Who would have guessed that it would take MonkeeCon 2013 to convince my husband he has a wife so smokin’ that she doesn’t need Victoria’s Secret?

So that is the long and short of my experience at MonkeeCon. As I said, I don’t know that I would ever attend another one, but overall I am happy I went. And I am proud of myself that I didn’t get caught up in all the voodoo and end up spending the equivalent of a month’s worth of tuition at my daughter’s school. As my friend Shannon put it, we just had to look for the ”‘best value’ deals of the weekend: a $10 autographed photo and fab convo with THE Henry Diltz; warm smiles and hugs from Christian and Circe; the twinkle in Annabel’s eyes as she heard the elbow story.” So let this be an assurance to other fans who might attend a MonkeeCon in the future that you can get the full Monkee experience for a fraction of the cost, and feel good about the rest of your money going to support Davy’s horses. I hear they are already planning another convention for the West Coast in 2014. That sounds like just about enough time for them to get the schedule worked out…and then not tell anyone what it is.

And our good times start and end, without dollar one to spend. But how much, baby, do we really need?

Thanks to my buddy Hugh for letting me post his video of Micky rockin’ out to Peter’s performance (I love you dearly for having the good sense to hit record on that one!). The “Calico Girlfriend” video was not from the convention, but can be seen on circelink.com. The Daydream Believer Sing-a-long video was posted on YouTube by “pegbarr,” who I am also grateful to for sharing the love.  

Sharing is Caring

At the very moment I sat down to write this blog, my kids started fighting over their keyboard. So we had our two millionth lesson about sharing. I am obviously doing something wrong here. The “experts” are always yapping about how effective it is for parents to model good behaviors for their children. So instead of sneakily retreating to my room, closing my door, hoarding the last of the Cheez-Its, and pretending to put away laundry, I am going to model the desired behavior and share. Not once, but twice.

The first thing I would like to share is a piece by Jerry Mahoney, who is the mastermind behind the blog Mommy Man: The Adventures of a Gay Superdad. All parents find themselves completely unprepared at one point or another when their children drop one of those atomic bomb questions that we haven’t yet thought about how to answer. Jerry, thankfully, is there to help a straight parent out if and when your child becomes curious about gay parents (which he or she will inevitably encounter in today’s society). His advice packs a punch of good old common sense, and helps parents use the right kind of language to encourage acceptance, tolerance, and a whole lot of “everyone is different and that’s okay.” Plus, he references Brainy Smurf, so you know it has to be good. Check out his post, “How To Talk to Your Children About Gay Parents, By a Gay Parent.” While you are there, stick around. He has a lot of other great stuff about just being a parent…gay or otherwise.

Now if I could just find a piece called, “How to Talk to Your Children About Not Picking Their Noses and Eating Their Boogers, By a Reformed Nose Picker Who Ate His Boogers.”

The second thing I want to share is this:

 

Okay, I just realized this was maybe not the best picture to have in the same post as one that talks about gay parents, but stay with me here. This is the Hutzler 571 Banana Slicer, available on Amazon. Yes, it is a completely ridiculous uni-tasker (as Alton Brown of Food Network would call it), and a bit funny simply by its mere existence. But a friend of mine posted the link to this on his Facebook page instructing everyone to read the reviews. So I did. Hi.Lar.I.Ous. My husband and I were actually in tears from laughing so hard, starting off with the review, “No More Winning for You, Mr. Banana!” This is literally the best thing that has ever been on Amazon. So do yourself a favor, and go read a few of the 3,101 reviews (yes, seriously) of a banana slicer. I dare you not to at least crack a smile.

See, kids. When you share, everyone is happy.