Fact: Your teen is going to hate you no matter what you do.

Good morning!

Hubs and I have always sort of thought of ourselves as cool parents.  Hey, we watched the Video Music Awards on MTV the other night!  Granted, I was waiting for Rick Springfield to perform, and okay, I watched until Mad Men came on...but still, that counts!

We've spent a lot of time and money, during our kids' growing up years, building the image of cool.  So, Monday, when Skippy turns 17, we will be celebrating another year of blissful parent/kid exchanges in a cool and loving atmosphere.

Only if that little dink eats his veggies.  And would it kill him to just once, JUST ONCE put his clean laundry in, oh, I don't know, his DRESSER so I can have the laundry baskets back?

Crap....there's my mom taking over my brain again!

Yep, it's rebellion season here as anyone with teens will tell you.  Teens don't care that you took them to Great America fifteen times one summer.  Teens don't care that you're paying for their car insurance and most of their gas.  Teens don't care that, given the cost of housing and feeding them is almost high enough that their threats to LEAVE FOREVER really sounds appealing.

Nope, teens do not care because no matter how cool we parents think we are, we are horrible, out of touch, dinosaurs in the eyes of our teen offspring.

Don't fool yourselves, parents.  You think this won't happen to you?  Hah! 

My parents didn't spend a dime on me beyond the basics.  I paid for clothes, I never got the car, and if I wanted to do something or eat something cool, I had to pay for it AND Get permission from them to do or eat or wear or listen to whatever.  So, in an effort to do things a bit differently and hopefully getting a different result  (I had an resentful relationship with my mother for about ten years, and my dad for about four.  Why the difference in the time frames?  Let's call it proportional to the amount of involvement.  LOL!)  Hubs and I have tried to do everything we could for the kids.

Yeah, a lot of good that did us.



Come on...I'm cooler than this guy...right??????



We were watching "Modern Family" the other night and Peaches and I were laughing at Phil, the dad who thinks he's super cool with his kids.  "He's such a dork," says I.  "He reminds me of you and dad," says Peaches.

Why don't you just shoot me now....please? 



The thing about teens is...well, they're teens.  They want to be independent.  They think they know everything because they've seen "Teen Mom" and "Tosh 2.0.  They think that just because I can't retrieve a voicemail message from my phone or update my face book from my phone, I don't know anything.  And, since Skippy's started driving, he's announced that I am the WORST DRIVER IN THE WORLD.  (Funny, my driving was just fine for the first 16 years of his life.)

It's completely normal, my friends.  Teens are supposed to hate us, I guess. It's part of the process of moving them out of the house so that we can return to the carefree, have sex in any room we want, days before the kids arrived.  (A direct result of having sex in any room we wanted, I'm sure!)



As parents, I guess we have to just take it day by day.  This week I can break the relationship down with Skippy this way:

Sunday:  Likes us
Sunday night:  Hates us  (Cable went out.)
Monday: hates us  (Not over the cable being out)
Tuesday :  Hates us less  (just filled his gas tank on his own and realized that he might need some $$)
Wednesday:  We're not bad  (Homecoming week...needs his curfew extended.)
Thursday:  We're okay enough to talk to for five minutes.  (Got his curfew extended.)
Friday:  Grunted at me three times on his way out the door.  HE LOVES ME

No, your kid is not going to want to be your friend on Face book.  (Would you want your mom as your friend?  Seriously, think about that.)  No, your kid is not going to take a phone call from you when he's with his friends.  (Send a text.  Learn to text.  Get your younger kid to text for you.)  And No, your teen is NOT going to WALK OR RIDE HIS BIKE when he can drive.  (don't even fight about it. Sell the bike.  Use it for gas money.)

Teens are going to hate their parents.  Cain and Abel, I'm sure, had issues with Adam and Eve.  Sure, they didn't have Face book or texting, but come on...if we can get through the teen years without one actually killing the other...we've done better than the original parents, right?

That's what I'm telling myself, and what I'll keep telling myself as I stay up late this weekend waiting for Skippy.

Sarah dishes out some practical advice.

Good morning!

I was reminded recently, (this morning, via a message on Face book, from a former student my my husband's), that I always told people, "When in doubt, say 'thank you' or 'I'm  sorry.'"

Obviously I've gotten way more rude in the 19 years since I said that.  Of course I say, Thank you, all the time.  That's just normal manners.  And I still say "I'm Sorry," frequently, but it's usually in a sentence such as this:  I'm sorry you're too clueless to understand that what you're telling me is completely without merit.

Probably not what I had in mind when, at the ripe age of 23, I was in charge of molding young female minds.  What was anyone thinking, putting me in charge of 7th and 8th grade girls?

I have, in the past 20 plus years, amassed other bits of wisdom that I try and pass on to those young people who ask me.  (Even if they don't ask...aren't I nice?) I don't pretend to have the answer to life  (unless the question is: why do we suffer so much pain?  In which case I'll say, "Oh because you obviously have a membership at Gold's Gym.") but I have discovered that following some of this advice will help you avoid some of life's biggest pitfalls.

First, the list I repeat to my children every day:

1)  Don't Drink.
2)  Don't Smoke
3)  Don't do drugs
4)  Keep your clothes on

Hey, I watch Maury Povich.  I know that if people would follow these four points there would be no Maury Povich show.  Or Jerry Springer.  Or Steve Wilkos.  And maybe then CBS wouldn't be cancelling the greatest show of all:  As The World Turns.  (Yes, in my circular logic, everyone who doesn't follow my four points is guilty of cancelling a 54 year old soap opera.)

Then there's the dating advice I give out:

Girls:  Date low brass players.

These are the guys who are used to carrying heavy loads, so they are ready for your baggage.  Also, they aren't the alpha males of the band, the trumpet players, so they are already used to taking a back seat role.  Which means they can step back and let you be the star.  Chances are, they can walk and carry heavy things, so shopping endlessly is no problem with them.  And, since they aren't trumpet players, they don't come with that rock star mentality.  They try harder.  (Did I date one, or did I date trumpet players...you be the judge.)

Guys:  avoid the pretty girls.

The old song used to be "If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife."  There is a certain amount of truth to that.  Everyone wants to date the "Pretty girl."  Well, guys, I'm here to tell you there's a big dif between a "pretty girl" and a "Beautiful girl."  The difference between the two is simple:  One frets over her fingernails in every situation.  The other does not.  On a side note:  Glasses do not make a woman smarter.  I was watching the news today and the hot traffic chick got "smarted up" with glasses and a severe pony tail.  They can ugly her up...she's still the dimwitted traffic chick. 

My Marriage advice:

Ladies:  Learn to like football.

Just do it.  Trust me, it's well worth it.  First of all, the times are predictable.  Unlike baseball, basketball, hockey, and any other sport, football is mostly Sunday.  Saturday is college football.  Monday is one game.  That's it.  Even the playoffs are pretty much Sunday.  Also, the season is only 18 weeks long.  Other sports are up to six months.  Hey, basketball starts in October and isn't over until JUNE.  Also, you can learn the rules of football easily.  They explain the rules pretty much after every play.  You'll be a rock star in your husband's eyes.

Men:  Figure skating and gymnastics are sports.  Period.

So when the wife asks you to watch a little figure skating after she's sat through 9 hours of football, DO IT.

Now, some rules of etiquette that are sort of vital to a happy life in general.

1)  Please and thank you and I'm sorry.

It gets noticed, if you say them and if you don't.  It will affect how much money Grandma puts in your next birthday card.

2)  Hold the door

I don't care if you're in a hurry.  Hold the door for the person behind you.  Open the door and step aside for someone older than you are, for someone with small children, for a soldier, for a person with a cane, walker, or wheelchair. 

3)  Do not discuss politics, religion, or your general dissatisfaction with your mother at a Partylite Party.

I'll talk about this more in a later post.  Trust me...

4)  Keep promises and return phone calls.
We are a society with a dozen ways to keep in touch.  And a dozen ways to ignore people.

Finally:

5)  Flush, look back, and flush again.

Oh you knew this was going to end up in the bathroom, didn't you?

Yes, hello, Mumsy?  I am calling to thank you for the delightful dinner last evening.  Yes, Beatrice and I thoroughly enjoyed the Beef Wellington, and the wine you chose was ever so charming...

I can't tell you how many public bathrooms I've been in where I walk into a stall and the bowl is still...full....COME ON!  Flush, and make sure what you put in there is flushed down.  If it takes three flushes, so what?  Do you really want people to know all your business?  Because when you walk out of a stall, especially in a busy restroom, like at a movie theater, and someone else walks in and sees what you left...they are going to know EVERYTHING and they are going to give you the STINK EYE.

Now, go forth and follow these guidelines.  I'm not promising a perfect life, but at least you'll avoid getting the stink eye.

The many uses for TP (Funny, none of these make the commercials!)

Good afternoon:

I've been informed, by some very reliable readers, that I'm not blogging enough, that my blogs are hilarious, that the print size is too small, and that my blog is a good cure for insomnia.  (That last one came from my good friend Shay, again, not her real name, who read every post in one sitting one long night and enjoyed it.)

Today my friends, I'm getting back to the most basic of basics, that one thing you should never be without, the one product we all know, need, and love.  It's the one thing, I don't care how hard certain environmental groups push, that should NEVER BE REUSED.  I am referring, of course, to Toilet Paper.  More importantly, commercials about toilet paper.

I loathe commercials.  My children will tell you that watching TV with me is horrible because I can, and will, watch no fewer than four shows at the same time for no other reason than I cannot abide watching commercials.  I know what products I need and I know where to find them in the stores.  So unless that maxi pad is lined with gold, that toothpaste can double as a frosting in a pinch, or that hairspray is suddenly a magic weight loss treatment, there's really no need to advertise.  I, like about 99.999% of everyone I know shops more by PRICE than anything else.  I don't care if that paper towel comes in 50 different sizes.  If it's $1 more for fewer sheets, Homey ain't gonna by that.  (Oh yes, I've started referring to myself as "Homey."  I think it's cute.)

Toilet paper is one of those items that really, REALLY doesn't need to spend a dime on advertising.  I don't care how cute that stupid puppy is.  And I don't care how much dust is on a Bear's rear.  It's toilet paper.  It does quite possibly the nastiest job on the planet.  (Mike Rowe should walk a day in the shoes of a roll of TP for his "Dirty Jobs.")  It's paper we use to clean waste off ourselves and then we flush it. 

My aunt used to decorate with toilet paper.  "Go get me a roll of green" she'd tell my cousins.  I always wished we could get colored toilet paper.  Alas, the rolls were smaller and the price was larger and therefore we had colored toilet paper only once.  (Hang on to your hats, my friends, this story takes a turn for the weirdly gross.)

See, when I was in high school, not only was I transfer student who liked to read and write poetry, but my father was the English teacher who was tough when it came to grading.  Can you say, "SUPER POPULAR?"  (No, I can't either.)  So every time there were doings at the school, which was pretty much every weekend, my classmates and other students with an artistic bend and no curfew, would troll out into the night and TP our house.  (I'm told this practice is now illegal in many places, which is stupid because TP doesn't do any real damage.  One good rain and it's pretty much gone.  Oh yes, I ache to go back to my old hometown and exact some tissue laden revenge, but I'm not willing to pay the fine.)  Anyway, one night, some extra creative juvenile delinquents hit our house with several rolls of Northern's finest pastel paper.  Pinks, blues, greens, and the rare yellows fluttered in the late October breeze one Saturday morning.

My mother, so impressed, took pictures.  And then, because not only was she impressed, but she was practical...she collected what she could, rerolled it  (Because no one EVER takes the cardboard shell casings... I mean rolls, with them!) and yes, we used it.

It wasn't bad.  A couple of random bits of twig here and there, but it was the one time we had colored TP, so that made up for the fact that it was...you know...used.

My mother now uses a TP that is so thin, not only isn't it absorbent, as so many others are, it's actually translucent.  I'm not kidding.  Oh, sure, there are like 3000 sheets on each roll.  But ya have to use 90 at a time before you get even close to a "clean" feeling.  And forget about blowing your nose in it.  I actually gave myself a paper cut on the face trying to blow my nose in some at my mom's house.

TP, they tell me, has many uses.  Okay, I knew TP had one use, and some preschool teachers would ask for the cardboard rolls, so that's two, right?  And then there's the nose blowing thing.  But recently I saw something that opened my eyes to a new world of uses for the beloved product.

Boys, we're gonna need the two ply on this one.

Some people claim to make dresses out of TP, as seen in the pic above.  Yeah, I have my doubts.  I tried doing that once for a fashion show in our youth group.  All I'm going to say is that thank goodness I had no trust in the strength of my garment.  Making clothing out of something that's designed to dissolve is just not...right.  Call me crazy, but I always like to end an evening with at least the same amount of clothing as I started it.

I watched a road crew patch  crack in the road with toilet paper.

Now, this is a point that will start an argument at our house.  Hubby says it wasn't TP.  I say, it looked like it, it fluttered in the breeze like it  (Who would know better than I?) and it was ROLLED LIKE IT.  Road crew Dude had three rolls of the stuff on a plunger handle.  He'd unroll several squares, then stuff it into the crack of the street, and tear it off with his foot.  I was so amazed, watching him, I didn't move in my car, which backed up those trying to get out of the grade school parking lot.  I ignored the honks.  I was watching SCIENCE!  (Or, at the very least, I was watching the sad state of our city budget at work.)

All the way to work I was thinking, How strong it that toilet paper and why haven't they advertised this?

"SO STRONG WE CAN PATCH A ROAD WITH IT.  NOW PUT THAT ON YOUR DELICATE PARTS AND RUB."

Okay, I'm not a pitchman. 

"IF IT'S STRONG ENOUGH TO STAND UP TO SUBURBAN TRAFFIC, IT'S STRONG ENOUGH TO STAND UP TO ANYTHING YOU CAN PUSH OUT."

Hmmmm, that's a little icky.

"THE STIMULUS PACKAGE GAVE US MORE MONEY TO PATCH ROADS WITH THAN WE KNOW HOW TO SPEND AND WE'VE DECIDED WE'RE GOING TO STRETCH THIS MONEY FOR AS LONG AS WE CAN BY DOING THE LEAST AMOUNT OF WORK POSSIBLE. TODAY, WE PATCH WITH TP.  TOMORROW IT RAINS.  THE NEXT DAY WE PATCH WITH TP.  WE LIKE THIS BLOCK AND WE WANT TO WORK ON IT FOREVER.  YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK."

That one might be a little wordy.

"FORGET THE BEAR AND THE PUPPY.  THIS TP IS MANLY ENOUGH TO PATCH ROADS!"

That's the one we'll go with!  Yes!

Well, I think if we've learned anything today it's that toilet paper can be useful in ways we have not considered.

And, Sarah's childhood was pretty messed up.

Water Aerobics Instructor vs. Newton's First Law of Physics.

Good morning!

I know it's been a week. Believe me, Dee has been on my case about not blogging!  But with the holiday weekend in there, oddly enough, nothing terribly hilarious happened to me.

And then I went to water aerobics again.

Let me just start off by saying that I owe Dee a HUGE thank you.  Had she not sacrificed her body to get my fat fanny into the pool yesterday, 1)  I would not have this blog this morning, and 2)  I would not be so ridiculously sore, that I know I must be making headway toward my goal of losing 70 pounds before May 1.

Now, to refresh everyone's high school or college Physics course  (Which I passed my freshman year in college only because of a great convergence of 1) a physics prof who gave points for any answer involving the word "beer," 2) my friend Todd, who is brilliant and changing pop song lyrics to involve the word "beer" and 3)  my friend Lee, without whose help I would never have managed a passing grade in Physics.)  let's discuss Newton's first Law of Motion:

Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.

Apparently the water aerobics instructor from last night, I'll call her Fran, because she wasn't Nan, is not familiar with Newton's first law of motion.  I say this because, as a warm up, she had us jogging and swinging our arms,  (underwater, of course) and just when we were getting a full head of steam, she'd yell, "STOP AND REVERSE RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!"

To illustrate just how hopeless this was, let me rephrase Newton's First Law of Motion:

Every fat woman moving in one direction in a swimming pool is going to keep going in that direction in the pool because the instructor's yelling is not enough of an external force to stop the motion of the floating fat.

Had a water aerobics instructor's shout been enough force to stop and reverse and massive floating body, James Cameron would never have gotten his Oscar.  (Think about it for a minute, you'll get it.)

I think my favorite instruction of the night, however, came at one of the many moments when we were jogging in place.  (Instead of suspended jumping jacks, this instructor had us jog.)  Here we are, jogging in place, and then Fran shouts, "GO FASTER! FAST! FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST!  At your own pace."

Sometimes blogs just write themselves.

We did work with the dumbbells of death.  I really could do without those things.  And I felt bad for Dee, who had already done an hour with her stalker/personal trainer.  (Their relationship is a whole blog itself.) Her arms were already sore.  But, to her credit, she didn't bring the class to a HALT because Fran was concerned for her well being.

That honor, my friends, belongs to me.

Yes, in a pool full of the aging, I was the one who, in a moment of pause, caught Fran's eye and got the, "Oh wait, are you okay?"

Then it was noodle time.  My previous experience with the noodle  (you know, that one other class I attended) was positive.  Hey, it's not the dumbbells of death.  Score a big point for the noodle.

Except Fran is no Nan and her noodle workout did not involve floating and Esther Williams dance moves.  No, Fran instructed us to SURF ON OUR NOODLES.

Let me see if I can paint a picture for you:  We were to push the noodle down far enough so we could stand on it.  THEN, we were to bring our knees up enough so that the noodle was off the bottom of the pool.  THEN, using our arms, we were to surf around the pool.

I am proud to say I was not the only one who FELL OFF THE NOODLE.

I was just the first one. 

Everyone else fell off because they were laughing so hard at me they lost their concentration.  Hey, it's not everyone who can get a water aerobics instructor to belly laugh.

The darling old man next to me in the lane caught my noodle and handed it to me. 

The water aerobics prayer circle, praying Sarah recovers from her noodle crash.

At the very end, Fran asked us what were three things we were thankful for.  The girl behind me said, "I'm just happy I made it through this class."

SOUL SISTER!

My thing was I was thankful that Dee showed up because I was really hoping to skip out last night, and then I would have missed the comedic gold that is me in the pool with foam floaty things.

In closing, I should say this: It has not been my intention to blog exclusively about my trials at the gym.  However, it does seem that's where the funny has been lately.

Now, I have some aspirin to mainline before I get to my workout after work.

Girls, we're going to be Rockettes when we finish this class!

Good morning!

It isn't often that a blog topic is so completely clear in my head that it practically writes itself.  Yesterday, however, not only was the topic oh-so-clear, but the title hit me like lightning.

Dee has been a member over at Gold's Gym for about two weeks.  I've been a member for 14 months.  She's taken more classes in her span of time at the gym than I have.  And, she's been on me to do a class.  I tend to be a tiny bit disruptive during exercise classes.  I'm awkward, and when I'm awkward, I get goofy, loud, and...disruptive.  (I used to take step aerobic classes through the local park and rec department.  After several sessions of what I like to call "trip aerobics" it was suggested I find a different way to exercise.)

So anyway, after a week of schedule shuffling, I managed to get to a water aerobics class with Dee last night. I love the water.  I'm a good swimmer, not as strong as I used to be, but I do just fine.  So water aerobics sounded great. I asked my personal trainer, KRAM, about this class.  He looked at me with his 20 something eyes and said, "You don't want that class.  It's full of large 80 year old women."

Sounds perfect.

First of all, I'm not saying I'm self conscious about being in my swim suit, but there's a massive, self esteem crushing  mirror in the locker room at Gold's everyone has to walk past to get to the pool.  Apparently the design team for Gold's wanted to really push home the point that WE ARE FAT.

Next, I did the class without my glasses.  I'm not blind, but I have found, as I get older, that not only is my sense of site impaired without the glasses, but so is my sense of hearing.  I used to laugh at my mother who would say, "Just a minute, let me put on my glasses so I can hear you."

I'm not laughing anymore.

So there I am, half blind, half deaf, awkward, and FAT and in the pool with half a dozen lovely older ladies, who were all shapes and sizes, thank you KRAM.  Dee showed me all the flotation devices we would need.  I thought this was pointless.  We were in four feet deep water.  How many aerobic drownings have there been?

Then the instructor showed up.  I will call her Nan for no other reason than my hands are too sore to call her a longer name.

Tiny, young, and ready to kill us all.  This I sensed without use of my ears or eyes.  She sent us through a series of warm ups.  These were moves I like to call "Churning the butter."  Easy enough.  Swish to the left, swish to the right, churn the butter.

Then Nan said, "Now do suspended jumping jacks."

Everyone else, including Dee, who SWEARS she'd only been to one other class, began to do expert looking underwater jumping jacks without touching the bottom of the pool.

I'm normally far more graceful in the water than on land, but suspended jumping jacks had me stumped.  I'm either too fatly buoyant or to fatly fat to do suspended jumping jacks in 4 feet of water.  I wound up doing a sort of injured walrus motion.

Warm ups over, Nan instructed us to get our dumbbells.  Now, dumbbells for water are different than free weight dumbbells.  These puppies are made of foam and FLOAT, so there's a resistance when you have to move them up and down in the water.

For me, the dumbbells made me more buoyant.  Seven women moved those foam death tools up and down in the water like a well oiled machine.  Woman number eight, me, was struggling to move the dumbbells without floating to the far end of the pool.  Woman number eight failed.

So there I was, at the far end of the pool, unable to control my foam dumbbells.  Meanwhile, the very sweet lady in the lane behind me, was trying to give me words of encouragement.  Unfortunately, I didn't have my glasses on, so I couldn't hear her.

After tearing our arm muscles to shreds, Nan told us to put the dumbbells on the desk and do more suspended jumping jacks.  This time I managed a couple of motions that felt like a suspended under water jumping jack, except for the part where, in the effort to move my hands and legs without touching the bottom, my head missed the message to stay out of the water. (Note:  When someone takes you to a water class and tells you you're not going to get your hair wet, they are lying to you.) Surfacing with a snootful of water, it was now time to get the noodles and do some work on the abs.

I like foam noodles.  I've lazed on some of the best pools and rivers on a noodle.  Nan called out commands such as "gleeb woosh laff" and "gleeb woodle ram."  Looking around, I realized that this meant I was to pull my knees up to my chin while floating on the noodle.  First, pull the legs up, then twist hips to the left and pull the knees up, then twist to the right and pull the knees up.  I was feeling very Esther Williams at that moment.  It was lovely and graceful and fun.

WWED?  What would Esther do? 

And then it was over.  Nan informed us that it was time for more suspended jumping jacks.  I tried.  I really, really tried this time.  I did succeed in a motion that probably would have been a jumping jack...in upside down land. 

Then it was time for the final foam tool.  This was two foam cylinders held together by a canvas strap.  Nan said, "Puh fonna kankle weee."

Watching Dee, I realized was to put the toy on my foot.

This is when the real fun started.  Nan had us doing knee flexes and high kicks.  My foot, buoyed by foam, developed a mind all its own.  I was doing groin crippling high kicks mostly because I couldn't stop my foot from floating away!

After each series of leg exercises, Nan gave us a break.  We removed the float from our feet and did...yes you guessed it, suspended jumping jacks.

I gave up.  I treaded water until it was time to stop. I know I wasn't doing the right thing, but at least I wasn't choking on pool water or looking like a complete spaz.  I do, after all, have the need to maintain my dignity!

At some point, while trying to wrangle my foam encased foot, I realized that the high kicks I was doing were actually really, really impressive.  Oh, I knew I would pay for them later.  I knew my hamstrings were shredded and mundane things like putting on pants would be painful for a long time, but darn it all, I was high kicking like a pro!  "GIRLS!"  I shouted to the blurred faces on the other side of the pool,"  WE'RE GOING TO BE ROCKETTES WHEN WE FINISH THIS CLASS!"

Inspired, I was really, really ready to work! 

Unfortunately, the class was over, and it was time for cool downs.

Cool downs?  Um, we're in a pool?

Never mind...I swished and I churned the butter with energy and excitement!  I'm a ROCKETTE!  I RULE!

And then I got out of the pool.  And got reacquainted with my friend, gravity.  Gravity was not interested in my new found grace.  Gravity had missed me and wanted to hug me tightly.  Gravity made me feel like I weighed about 400 pounds. 

Still, I'm undeterred.  I'm going to lose those 70 pounds before Rick Springfield shows up in Milwaukee again.  (There, that's my goal, I said it.  Now you know.)  I'm going to be the most graceful person in the class for older ladies.  I'm GOING TO BE A ROCKETTE!

At least in the water.


BTW, kids, I'm guest blogging at Susie Kline's delightful site tomorrow.  I'm discussing how Miley Cyrus made me late for work.  Catch me after 8 AM tomorrow, Friday at http://www.motherhoot.com/

Let me just drop everything...

Good afternoon!

We all have people in our lives who demand our time and attention in the most unreasonable ways. You know what I mean.  I'm talking about the people who wait until the last minute and then demand you stop everything and help them finish something.  (Generally kids who "forget" school projects until about 9 PM on Sunday night...and it's due Monday morning.)   I'm ABSOLUTELY talking about the customer I just got off the phone with who was griping because we didn't ship him something he ordered right away, so he could fill an order for a customer who placed the order TWO WEEKS AGO!

Let me put that in a step by step logic...

1)  The customer orders a toy from the guy.

2)  The guy waits two weeks to place the order for the toy with me.

3)  Since the guy waited two weeks to place the order for the toy, he missed the deadline I have for the days I place the order with our suppliers.

4)  Since he missed the deadline, the customer of the guy will now have to wait about two weeks, closer to three really, to get the toy he wanted.

5)  The guy is yelling at me for this because his customer now has to wait longer.  Apparently he feels if he yells at me I will start crying and those tears will make the toy magically appear in his customer's hand.  I'm good, but I'm not the Quantum Leap guy, I can't bend the time/space continuum and get that toy here two weeks ago.  Also, I'm not Santa Claus, and if I were, he'd still have to wait because I only deliver one day a year.

Say it with me, my friends:  FAILURE TO PLAN ON YOUR PART DOES NOT CONSTITUTE AN EMERGENCY ON MY PART.

And repeat after me: OH, LET ME JUST DROP EVERYTHING I'M DOING AND LISTEN TO YOUR PROBLEM.

And finally:  YOU CAN'T SCARE ME, BUDDY, I HAVE TEENAGERS.

My friends, this is a get-what-you-want-when-you-want-it-and-get-it-right-now world.  Thanks to the Internet, we can order something from pretty much anyplace on the planet and get it next day, provided we're willing to pay for it.  (The guy wasn't, BTW.)  It's okay that we have this ability to shop globally.  But there are still some things that simply cannot happen if you don't plan ahead.

Because you KNOW this woman's got hers!

1)  If you don't buy your ticket for the midnight screening of Harry Potter sooner rather than later, there won't be a ticket available for you to buy.  It won't matter that you're dressed in your finest Griffendor clothes, the muggle in the ticket booth has a finite number of tickets and if Lord Voldemort had to buy ahead, you probably should, too. And that goes for all you TwiHard fans, too.  Teams Edward and Jacob, you wanna see the movie at midnight?  Buy ahead. 

2)  ACT/SAT testing.  Yeah, sign up my friends, or you're going to wind up taking the ACT at a high school 50-100 miles away from home, if you're lucky. (Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything, OF COURSE...) 

3)  Call ahead seating for "family friendly" eateries.  While I happen to think this is a bit of a scam, I'm not ready to risk it.  I'm calling ahead and limiting the amount of time I spend sitting in the "wait area"  (which is ALWAYS about 10X too small for the number of the hungry sitting there waiting for a table like undead zombies..."FEED ME.........."FEEEEEEEEDDDDDD MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!")  You don't call ahead, you don't get to the head of the line. And if you don't get to the head of the line, be ready for them to be "out" of certain menu items.  Oh you wanted the special? Sorry, you should have gotten there earlier, or called ahead.  All that's left is calf liver and onions.  Enjoy!

4)  Camp sites.  Now, I don't camp all that often...okay, I haven't camped in 10 years.  But I know this:  If you don't book your campsite ahead they are going to put you in a spot between the bathrooms and the playground and you'll get no sleep OR they'll put you sixteen miles away from the bathrooms and you'll...well, just bring a big bucket, that's all I can say.

5) Rick Springfield meet and greets (OR ANY meet and greets with stars.)  I don't know much, but I know this:  If they say a limited number of people are getting in, it's going to be limited!  Wanna talk to Rick?  GET IN LINE EARLY!  (Okay, that was just for a select few of you out there, you know who you are.  We stood in line together, hoping against hope.  And some of you got a little testy and rude, didn't you?  Oh don't look away from me like that!)

Here's the biggie:

Doctor's offices are the exception, most of the time. There it's really first come, first serve unless you're super injured or sick. But, in honor of back to school, I have to bring up this one this:

PHYSICALS

Yes, if your child is in a school sport, they must have a physical at least every other year.  It must be done after April 1 and in time for school to start.  Ya know what the scheduling nurses LOVE?  They LOVE it when you wait until July 7 to schedule a physical for a sport that starts July 9.  Oh yes, they'll drop EVERYTHING and get you RIGHT IN.

Not that I know this from experience...

So you want to order a coffee beverage...

Good morning!

I'm ignoring the fact that I just sent my baby off to her last first day of grade school.  She's so ready for high school, she'd like to skip 8th grade and go directly to the land of lockers and proms  (She's been shopping for a prom dress since she was 9).  Instead, I'm going to focus on something that makes me laugh every time I'm ordering coffee beverages at a coffee beverage place.

Going to a coffee place is the way suburban women can make themselves feel trendy and hip.  And the fact that coffee is one of the few legal addictions to have  (and it is our addictions that bind us together...think about that nugget of wisdom later today.)  drinking coffee, and more importantly ordering coffee from a trendy coffee place is a skill to have.  Personally, I didn't drink a drop of that black elixer of life until I was 36 and needed something to keep me awake after watching those late night NHL playoff games. Six years later, I'm a card carrying coffee drinker very close to sucking the stuff down like truckers do...black and bitter.

I realize that ordering a coffee beverage from someone called a barista  can be a little confusing.  I get that.  But if Skippy and Peaches can manage it,  then grown adults should be able to.  At least, that's what you'd think.

There are some unwritten rules to ordering coffee in a coffee place.  And, as a public service, I'm here to help.

1)  Don't pretend you know everything.

Hey, they're called BARISTAS.  They've got the corner on pretentious, so don't go into a coffee place pretending you know everything because they will see through the crap and mock you two ways:  First they will be over polite to the point of ridiculous, and second, they will go in the back room with the other baristas and loudly laugh while you drink something that not only isn't what you thought it was, but probably has an extra shot of something in it so that you're awake for the next three days.  No, they won't spit in your coffee, they are above that.  But they can and will mess with your sleep patterns.  So, when ordering, assume a humble, ignorant expression and allow them to shower you with their coffee knowledge.

2)  Don't ask "What should I have?"

This question will only result in a completely blank stare.  Those familiar with the movie "Joe Versus the Volcano"  (And if you're not, you better get familiar because it's required viewing for this blog.) will recall the scene in which Joe asks his driver, Marshall,  where he should go to buy clothes.  This exchange ensues:

Marshall: They just pay me to drive the limo, sir. I'm not here to tell you who you are.



Joe: I didn't ask you to tell me who I am.


Marshall: You were hinting around about clothes. That happens to be a very important topic to me, sir. Clothes, Mr...


Joe: Banks.


Marshall: Banks. Clothes make the man. I believe that. You say to me you want to go shopping, you want to buy clothes, but you don't know what kind. You leave that hanging in the air, like I'm going to fill in the blank. That to me is like asking me who you are, and I don't know who you are. I don't want to know. It's taken me my whole life to find out who I am, and I'm tired now. You hear what I'm saying?
 
You cannot ask a barista what you should have and expect anything other than a blank stare.  The correct question to ask is:  "What's your favorite beverage?"  OR, "I want something cold.  What do you suggest?"  (Don't know if you want a cold beverage or a hot one?  Get out of the coffee place immediately and don't come back until you've at least figured out what temperature you want.)
 
3)  Size matters.  Figure out how to pronounce the sizes or order the ones you can pronounce.
 
Face it.  I'll always order a "Tall" or a "Venti" because I am not sure if it's "GRAND" or "GRAND-AY."  Don't say small, medium, or large, because these are not words the baristas understand and they will fire back "do you want that as a tall?"  Tall is SMALL.  Venti is BIG.  the middle one we don't order.
 
4)  Watching your weight?  Here's what you say:
 
Those of you savvy enough to have studied up on this know that if you 86 (That's a restaurant term for get rid of or run out of) the whipped cream and whole milk from coffee beverages you save yourself half the fat and calories.  Ah, but how to order this and not look like some nit picking dingbat like the woman I was behind at the deli.
 
Okay, I have to tell you this story because, well, it just happened and it made me laugh. After I got over being furious.  I went to the deli at my local mega mart to get some sliced cheese and roast beef for Skippy's sandwiches.  I managed to get behind a woman who had six children  (All hers from the looks of it) with her.  Five of the six were mobile and were buzzing around like noisy bees.  I've been there.  That didn't bother me.  She made them all go sit on the display of soda cases...I thought that was brilliant.  What made me mad was when she got to the counter and said this:
 
"What ham do you have that's not processed?"
 
You're laughing, right?  You should be.  The deli clerk, a patient man, said, "Ma'am, it's ham.  It's all processed in some way."
 
"Yes, but what is the least processed ham you sell?"
 
(I cannot make this up, this really happened.)
 
"Well, I guess this one," he points to one of the nine different kinds of ham in the case.  All of the ham, it should be noted, looks exactly the same, except they have different titles.  Some is "Honey baked" some is "Smoked apple wood."  But all of it looks like...ham.
 
"Is that the least processed ham you sell?"
 
(Now, at this point, I'm ready to jump behind the counter myself and yank out one of the fifty pound unsliced hams they keep and through it at her, because it's had one less step in the processing process...it hasn't been sliced.)
 
The Deli Clerk, an awesome picture of super human patience, then points to the basic store brand ham and says, "I think this one is maybe a little less processed."
 
The woman is over joyed.  She says, "Good, I will take half a pound of that.  I don't want my children eating processed foods."
 
So I've told you that story to explain why you should know how to order something with less fat.  Coffee places offer a "lite" version of their drinks.  I'm here to tell you, don't order that.  The lite versions are nasty.  It's like diet soda without the whimsy.  If you want to get something that is far lighter than the original that still tastes good, order it "non fat, no whip."  They will remove the whipped topping and replace whole milk with skim.  Not sure if a beverage comes with whipped topping?  It's perfectly okay to ask that question.
 
5)  You're in a coffee place.  If you want something that doesn't taste like coffee, get a fruit smoothie.
 
Ordering in a coffee place in the suburbs is a trip sometimes.  I love getting behind middle aged women who want to be hip and drink the cool coffee stuff, but really don't like the coffee flavor.  This is a transcript of an actual order I witnessed recently.
 
Woman: I'd like something hot, but what do you have that doesn't taste like coffee?
 
Barista:  We have fruit smoothies.
 
Woman:  I don't like fruit smoothies. I want something hot.
 
Barista:  We have teas, hot and cold.
 
Woman:  I don't like tea.
 
Barista:  We have bottled water and sparkling water.
 
Woman:  No, I want coffee.  But what do you have that doesn't taste like coffee?
 
Barista:  Well, since all of our coffee drinks have coffee in them, I suppose they all taste like coffee.
 
Woman:  What about the mocha?
 
Barista:  That would taste like coffee.
 
Woman:  What about the espresso?
 
Barista:  That would really taste like coffee.
 
This went on for about five minutes until the woman decided she'd try a mocha frap.  (That's a frozen blended coffee drink that has a hint of chocolate.  It is neither hot, nor is the coffee flavor hidden in any way.)
 
If you do not like the flavor of coffee, try the fruit smoothies, the teas  (I like the vanilla latte ruibos myself.)  or don't go to a coffee place. 
 
May I suggest starting your coffee experience at the gas station?  Believe me when I say, gas station cappuccino is a gift of the gods, all creamy and sweet and hardly any coffee flavor at all.  Start with that and, in a couple of years when you realize that drinking gas station cappuccino doesn't make you look trendy in anyway, gradually work your way through the coffee place's menu until you find the drink you really like.  Then, like my hubby, you too can just say, "I'll have the usual."  and look seriously trendy to your non coffee drinking friends.