Grocery Shopping stresses me out. It's not only the fact that I usually have three little ones with me that turn into starving refugee children as soon as we get through the automatic doors - "Mommy, I'm soooooo hungry!!" says my five-year-old with a slouching walk for added effect.
"My beh-yee hurts Mama. I need a cookie!" pleads my three-year-old as I wheel the cart over to the bakery hoping that they will show pity with a free sample - it's all the work involved in getting my family's weekly food supply that is so over-whelming.
First, there is the pressure to buy the right kinds of food for my family. After listening to countless nutritionists, allergists, fitness gurus and child-rearing experts and then being subjected to such guilt-evoking TV shows as "Honey, We're Killing the Kids" and "The Biggest Loser"; I've surmised that the only healthy thing to eat after you eliminate all sugars, carbs, trans-fats, chemical preservatives, excessive calories, dairy, white flour, red meat, pink hearts, yellow moons, green clovers and purple horseshoes (oh, wait - started reading a Lucky Charms box) is the paper bag that you put the groceries in.
Of course, I can't have the paper bag even if I wanted to eat it because that would be killing the tree that was used to make the bag, and my other option of "plastic" would be adding to the non-bio-degradable waste in our landfills. Yes, the fate of western civilization rests in my decision at the check-out line whether or not to use paper or plastic. I could always do the more noble thing of spending $14.99 on a re-usable canvas bag that holds the equivalent of a cantaloupe and a quart of soy milk, but then I would need to take out a small home loan in order to carry all my groceries home. Maybe that's why some grocery stores have banks inside them. And when the cantaloupe gets dropped by my overly-helpful five-year-old, I will have to waste precious water in order to clean my canvas bag and the world is again doomed.
There are those people who get really excited about going to the grocery store because to them it is an Olympic event of savings. They have a small army clipping coupons for them, they search the Internet for coupon codes, they scan the newspaper flyers for the weekly hot deals, synchronize their calendars to coincide with "double coupon deal day", and frequently pay homage to the art of "buying in bulk". They organize their coupons in a small file folder categorized by their favorite grocery store's aisles, and have flow charts and graphs to determine the best saving strategy. I have no doubt that these people save enough money at the check-out to buy a small chain of grocery stores themselves - I simply don't have the time or the economic savvy to devote my life to being the Alan Greenspan of the Pick N' Save.
Inevitably, when I am running low on time, I usually get stuck behind an over-zealous coupon-clipper or worse yet - someone who wants to have a meaningful conversation about my grocery choices. "Oh, I see you have the new organic wheat crust frozen pizzas in your cart! Are those any good? I want to try those myself, but I heard that they're really expensive. Do you have a coupon for those or are they on sale?"
"Neither", I say reluctantly.
"Oh." says the coupon clipper with a hint of righteous indignation in her eyes.
The check-out line causes most of my anxiety. I find myself justifying my purchases before I even get in line because I know that judgement awaits me in the form of the grocery clerk. Usually this person is a teen-age girl who is more interested in getting done with her shift than scanning my items. She views my heaping cart with annoyance - I am detaining her from somewhere she'd rather be. She greets me with a half-hearted, "hello" and asks me if I found everything I was looking for today. In her head I am sure she is thinking, "Obviously - it looks like she 'found' half the store." but instead she turns to talk to the pimple-faced bagger at the end of the conveyor belt and begins to talk about the party that I am obviously keeping her from.
"Paper or plastic?" squeaks the pubescent bag-boy.
"If I get canvas bags instead, do you have to run a credit check on me?" I ask. The kid just stares blankly back at me.
The other type of grocery clerk that I usually encounter is the one who's been at the job for a number of years and has developed some opinions that she doesn't mind sharing with her captive shoppers. Once when I was waiting my turn in line, I asked the clerk where I could find the plastic dividers that separate one shopper's groceries from the other's. "I don't believe in dividers," was her curt response. I had not been aware that plastic dividers could evoke such passion one way or the other, but apparently, this clerk felt strongly about free-range groceries. She saw a world of groceries not limited to "mine" and "yours", but a world where spaghetti noodles and Spam could stand side by side and not and not be labeled. I'm sure she started a "Groceries Without Borders" campaign somewhere. Dare to dream.
The other opinion frequently offered to me is how I can "save even more with our Savings Club Card". Since when did grocery stores adopt a country club mentality when it comes to offering their customers a deal? Does the idea of belonging to a "club" make their stores sound more posh than the fluorescent lighting and linoleum flooring would suggest? "You mean I can belong to the same exclusive club that allows the sophisticated, unshaven, T-shirt-wearing man in front of me to save on his Marlboro's and Jack Daniels? OOH! Where do I sign up?"
With all the hassle that is involved in feeding my brood, I'm beginning to think that it would be easier to go back to hunting and gathering. Of course, it might be a little difficult to fit a deer in one of those canvas bags.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
High Tech Nagging
I am a parent of three children and I am convinced that parenting is far more difficult today than it was when I was a kid. I say this not for the reasons that you might suspect - greater pressure from our children's peers and the media pulling at them to do anything from drugs to piercing every available space on their body; the increased dangers that lie in wait for our kids - internet sex offenders, drug pushers, Paris Hilton. No, what makes my job as a parent more difficult is that there are now more ways available for my mother to say, "I told you so!"
My mother loves being right. I would say that she probably loves it more than sex, but who wants to think of their mom that way?! LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA! Find a happy place, find a happy place!......Okay, all better. Anyway, my mom lives to prove that she knows all when it comes to parenting and marriage, and she feels it is her duty to pass her wisdom down to her young apprentice - me. Put this together with a slight knowledge of the internet and you have a dangerous combination. For example, if I happen to mention to my mother that my oldest child is struggling with math in school, I can expect to receive no less than 3 e-mails with links to web-sites that expound on the benefits of piano lessons to improve math performance, the evils of too much T.V. in my young student's life, and the latest "brain food" diets that I should be feeding my family. This will be followed up by either an e-mail or a voice-mail message by my mom to see if I received, and am following the mom-recommended regimen that will put my daughter on the road to Harvard or MIT.
Of course, I take some responsibility for my mom's nagging. I enable her by, well, talking to her. Furthermore, I'm not totally convinced that nagging is a bad thing. My theory is that nagging has probably advanced our society far more than we realize. The early settlers of America might very well have stayed in Europe if they weren't nagged by their government to follow the proper religion. The pioneers of the American Frontier were probably compelled to "Go West Young Man" in order to escape being told what to do by their nagging parents and inlaws, "You call that a corn field Ephraim? Why I've seen taller ears on my mule than what you've got growing there...." Maybe they figured that taking their chances with rough terrain, wild animals, and hostile natives was a much better deal than listening to, "I toldeth thou so" from their Puritan parents. They say that, "behind every great man is a great woman" and I'm willing to bet that that woman is a great nag.
I am not with out my high-tech counter-attack against my mom's nagging though. I thank the good Lord for caller I.D., or I would have no defense against the incoming barrage of calls from my life coach. I have the added bonus of having talking caller I.D. so that the incoming call is announced, in a robotic monotone, throughout the house. Now if they can only tweak it a little more so that it also announces your caller's intentions: "Incoming call from your mother. She's hot under the collar about the dishes piling up in your sink." God forbid I ever get a video phone or my mother, upon calling me at 10:00 in the morning, would see that I'm still in my pajamas, and then proceed to give me advise on how to manage my time more wisely. I'm sure she would think that blogging is not a productive use of my time......or she might see it as an effective way to extol her advise to the masses and thus get her own blog. If that happens, God help us all.
My mother loves being right. I would say that she probably loves it more than sex, but who wants to think of their mom that way?! LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA! Find a happy place, find a happy place!......Okay, all better. Anyway, my mom lives to prove that she knows all when it comes to parenting and marriage, and she feels it is her duty to pass her wisdom down to her young apprentice - me. Put this together with a slight knowledge of the internet and you have a dangerous combination. For example, if I happen to mention to my mother that my oldest child is struggling with math in school, I can expect to receive no less than 3 e-mails with links to web-sites that expound on the benefits of piano lessons to improve math performance, the evils of too much T.V. in my young student's life, and the latest "brain food" diets that I should be feeding my family. This will be followed up by either an e-mail or a voice-mail message by my mom to see if I received, and am following the mom-recommended regimen that will put my daughter on the road to Harvard or MIT.
Of course, I take some responsibility for my mom's nagging. I enable her by, well, talking to her. Furthermore, I'm not totally convinced that nagging is a bad thing. My theory is that nagging has probably advanced our society far more than we realize. The early settlers of America might very well have stayed in Europe if they weren't nagged by their government to follow the proper religion. The pioneers of the American Frontier were probably compelled to "Go West Young Man" in order to escape being told what to do by their nagging parents and inlaws, "You call that a corn field Ephraim? Why I've seen taller ears on my mule than what you've got growing there...." Maybe they figured that taking their chances with rough terrain, wild animals, and hostile natives was a much better deal than listening to, "I toldeth thou so" from their Puritan parents. They say that, "behind every great man is a great woman" and I'm willing to bet that that woman is a great nag.
I am not with out my high-tech counter-attack against my mom's nagging though. I thank the good Lord for caller I.D., or I would have no defense against the incoming barrage of calls from my life coach. I have the added bonus of having talking caller I.D. so that the incoming call is announced, in a robotic monotone, throughout the house. Now if they can only tweak it a little more so that it also announces your caller's intentions: "Incoming call from your mother. She's hot under the collar about the dishes piling up in your sink." God forbid I ever get a video phone or my mother, upon calling me at 10:00 in the morning, would see that I'm still in my pajamas, and then proceed to give me advise on how to manage my time more wisely. I'm sure she would think that blogging is not a productive use of my time......or she might see it as an effective way to extol her advise to the masses and thus get her own blog. If that happens, God help us all.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
DOH! - A DEER!
It was while I was driving along the highway and noticing yet another deer carcass on the side of the road that I decided that it would suck to be a deer.
There have been times during great stress in dealing with my everyday life that I have wished to be someone or something else. A bird would be appealing due to the whole "flying factor" - just pick up and fly some place warm when the mood strikes you and poop on those pedestrians who tick you off along the way. If I'm a bird, I'm flying my butt down to Disney World, getting in free, and bombadeering the jerks who rent a wheelchair and fake disability in order to get in the front of the line. A bear would be a good choice - get to gain weight and sleep all winter without anyone saying "boo" about it and if they do, you just eat them - yeah, I could be a bear.
However, a deer's life is not one I envy. They are the Rodney Dangerfields of the animal kingdom - they get no respect. Deer are surrounded by the threat of imminent death. I imagine that if a deer possessed human qualities, we would see a bunch of paranoid, chain-smoking cynical deer who are in therapy twice a week....Maybe Dennis Leary is a deer in disguise. And a disguise is really what a deer needs to escape the bullets that wiz by their heads every hunting season. Of course, the deer population is so large that if they are not hunted by either man or beast, they would starve to death for lack of food. Then of course our furry friend can meet its fate by automobile - can't even run away from its miserable existence in the forest without the fear of ending up as a hood ornament on a Chevy Impala - which is just cruel irony if you ask me. To add insult to injury - a dead deer isn't even removed from the scene of its demise on the highway. It is simply pushed to the side of the road and spray painted orange so that it can be avoided by on-coming traffic. So if you are that deceased deer, not only are you now sprawled out for all of rush-hour traffic to see, but your butt has been tagged with orange graffiti - not a flattering color I might add.
You know, when you add all the factors of a deer's life up - guns, over-population, starvation, predators, getting killed by a drive-by, graffiti - you have....the ghetto. Maybe deer could expound upon their harsh life in the wood-ghetto though the music of rap. Deer - the rap artists of the animal kingdom. You could have Snoop Bucky-Buck, Lil' Fawn, Dr. Doe, and Bambi Elliot. They could rap about Chronic (Wasting Disease) and drive pimped-out John Deer tractors. "So I'm on a mission. Ya betta jus' listen. Time to give props to the deer that we're dissin' - Peace Out!"
There have been times during great stress in dealing with my everyday life that I have wished to be someone or something else. A bird would be appealing due to the whole "flying factor" - just pick up and fly some place warm when the mood strikes you and poop on those pedestrians who tick you off along the way. If I'm a bird, I'm flying my butt down to Disney World, getting in free, and bombadeering the jerks who rent a wheelchair and fake disability in order to get in the front of the line. A bear would be a good choice - get to gain weight and sleep all winter without anyone saying "boo" about it and if they do, you just eat them - yeah, I could be a bear.
However, a deer's life is not one I envy. They are the Rodney Dangerfields of the animal kingdom - they get no respect. Deer are surrounded by the threat of imminent death. I imagine that if a deer possessed human qualities, we would see a bunch of paranoid, chain-smoking cynical deer who are in therapy twice a week....Maybe Dennis Leary is a deer in disguise. And a disguise is really what a deer needs to escape the bullets that wiz by their heads every hunting season. Of course, the deer population is so large that if they are not hunted by either man or beast, they would starve to death for lack of food. Then of course our furry friend can meet its fate by automobile - can't even run away from its miserable existence in the forest without the fear of ending up as a hood ornament on a Chevy Impala - which is just cruel irony if you ask me. To add insult to injury - a dead deer isn't even removed from the scene of its demise on the highway. It is simply pushed to the side of the road and spray painted orange so that it can be avoided by on-coming traffic. So if you are that deceased deer, not only are you now sprawled out for all of rush-hour traffic to see, but your butt has been tagged with orange graffiti - not a flattering color I might add.
You know, when you add all the factors of a deer's life up - guns, over-population, starvation, predators, getting killed by a drive-by, graffiti - you have....the ghetto. Maybe deer could expound upon their harsh life in the wood-ghetto though the music of rap. Deer - the rap artists of the animal kingdom. You could have Snoop Bucky-Buck, Lil' Fawn, Dr. Doe, and Bambi Elliot. They could rap about Chronic (Wasting Disease) and drive pimped-out John Deer tractors. "So I'm on a mission. Ya betta jus' listen. Time to give props to the deer that we're dissin' - Peace Out!"
Sunday, May 15, 2005
I Dream - Therefore I Am
Do nudists have recurring dreams of being dressed in a public place?
Do gorgeous movie stars dream of kissing an ordinary un-famous face?
Does the dream of falling from a height leave stuntmen without a care?
Do birds dream (if they dream) of walking everywhere?
If dreams are our subconscious fears as Freud was known to say,
Then did Sigmund have recurring dreams that dreams all went away?
Some very deep and profound thoughts fill my philosophical cup,
But they must now all cease for the alarm is ringing......and now I must wake up.
Do gorgeous movie stars dream of kissing an ordinary un-famous face?
Does the dream of falling from a height leave stuntmen without a care?
Do birds dream (if they dream) of walking everywhere?
If dreams are our subconscious fears as Freud was known to say,
Then did Sigmund have recurring dreams that dreams all went away?
Some very deep and profound thoughts fill my philosophical cup,
But they must now all cease for the alarm is ringing......and now I must wake up.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Cheap Cable Reality Stars
I am married to a frugal man. He prefers the term "a good steward of money", but that's like calling a virgin "a good steward of sex" - neither one's going to be giving it up any time soon. I call it like I see it - my husband's cheap (which, ironically, you can't say about a virgin). So naturally, being married to a penny-pincher, there are certain things in our married life that reflect his extra tight grip on the wallet. One of them is our cable service.
We have "basic cable" - not even "standard cable" - basic. No HBO or Cinemax for us. I've made the discovery that we don't have Discovery, it's no laughing matter that we can't get Comedy Central - I can't even get my MTV. I am lucky if I can get to watch Scott Baio in any number of reruns of Happy Days, Joannie Loves Chachi, Diagnosis Murder or my personal favorite - Charles in Charge. TV THEME SONG BREAK!......"A new boy in the neighborhood, lives downstairs and it's understood. He's there just to take good care of me, like he's one of the family....CHARLES IN CHARGE of our days and our nights, CHARLES IN CHARGE of our wrongs and our rights. And I see, I want CHARLES IN CHARGE OF ME!"
Ahhhh, that was fun.... now where were we? Oh yes, cheap cable. We have the TV version of AM radio. To be perfectly honest with you, it really doesn't bother me. I figure, the more channels we have, the more crap we have to choose from. As such, in having cheap, cheap cable, I am obviously out of the loop in regards to the latest trend towards reality shows. The newlyweds, Nick and Jessica, have not crossed the threshold of our home. Queer Eye has not had an influence on my fashion-challenged husband - although, every time I catch him wearing his shorts with tube socks and stark white sneakers, I threaten to call the Fab Five for an emergency make-over. However, they say that necessity is the mother of invention (or the root of all evil.... something like that), so I have found my own Cheap Cable Reality Stars.
My first reality star I discovered while flipping through my oh-so-few channels can be seen on that widely-viewed network - EWTN. That's right - Catholic TV. There you will find the cutest little nun since Sally Field flew across our TV screens. Mother Angelica is a sweet little old lady whose face reminds me of one of those baked-apple dolls you see in gift shops. Now I must admit that my Catholic up-bringing might be shedding a bias on my opinion, but as she sits in her wooden chair giving her viewers spiritual counsel with a little bit of spunk in her voice, I am completely mesmerized. Mother Angelica has been plagued by recurring minor strokes and so during some of her telecasts, she wears an eye patch and becomes.......Pirate Nun - Arrrrrrr!
Okay, I am so completely going to Hell for that statement. I'm going to go say 3 "Hail Mary's" and 2 "Our Father's".
My next cheap cable reality star likes to hang out with the stars - literally. Jack Horkheimer is better known as the Star Gazer and can be seen on PBS during a night of insomnia or nursing an infant (which is how I discovered him). Actually, he used to be known as the Star Hustler and dressed the part - gold chains and all - until political correctness took over. Now he just wears polyester sweat suits ala Tony Soprano. There are so many things I like about this guy - the first being his name. Jack Horkheimer - sounds like something that you would order at the deli. "I'll have a pound of Jack Horkheimer - shaved, not sliced." Next, is his obvious love for the science of Astronomy. This guy is way too excited about telling the audience where they can find Uranus in the night sky. My guess is that it would be most visible during a full moon, but I'm no expert (hee, hee!) Mr. Horkheimer delivers his nightly star-gazing reports with a wild-eyed smile and a raspy voice reminiscent of Harvey Feinstein as he leaps from planet to planet on his green screen set. He even has a signature sign-off, "Keep looking up!" which I think beat out Jack's first choice of, "Horkheimer Out!"
Ooohh! Gotta go - informercial guru Don Lapre is on TV telling me how I can get rich enough to upgrade my cable service.
We have "basic cable" - not even "standard cable" - basic. No HBO or Cinemax for us. I've made the discovery that we don't have Discovery, it's no laughing matter that we can't get Comedy Central - I can't even get my MTV. I am lucky if I can get to watch Scott Baio in any number of reruns of Happy Days, Joannie Loves Chachi, Diagnosis Murder or my personal favorite - Charles in Charge. TV THEME SONG BREAK!......"A new boy in the neighborhood, lives downstairs and it's understood. He's there just to take good care of me, like he's one of the family....CHARLES IN CHARGE of our days and our nights, CHARLES IN CHARGE of our wrongs and our rights. And I see, I want CHARLES IN CHARGE OF ME!"
Ahhhh, that was fun.... now where were we? Oh yes, cheap cable. We have the TV version of AM radio. To be perfectly honest with you, it really doesn't bother me. I figure, the more channels we have, the more crap we have to choose from. As such, in having cheap, cheap cable, I am obviously out of the loop in regards to the latest trend towards reality shows. The newlyweds, Nick and Jessica, have not crossed the threshold of our home. Queer Eye has not had an influence on my fashion-challenged husband - although, every time I catch him wearing his shorts with tube socks and stark white sneakers, I threaten to call the Fab Five for an emergency make-over. However, they say that necessity is the mother of invention (or the root of all evil.... something like that), so I have found my own Cheap Cable Reality Stars.
My first reality star I discovered while flipping through my oh-so-few channels can be seen on that widely-viewed network - EWTN. That's right - Catholic TV. There you will find the cutest little nun since Sally Field flew across our TV screens. Mother Angelica is a sweet little old lady whose face reminds me of one of those baked-apple dolls you see in gift shops. Now I must admit that my Catholic up-bringing might be shedding a bias on my opinion, but as she sits in her wooden chair giving her viewers spiritual counsel with a little bit of spunk in her voice, I am completely mesmerized. Mother Angelica has been plagued by recurring minor strokes and so during some of her telecasts, she wears an eye patch and becomes.......Pirate Nun - Arrrrrrr!
Okay, I am so completely going to Hell for that statement. I'm going to go say 3 "Hail Mary's" and 2 "Our Father's".
My next cheap cable reality star likes to hang out with the stars - literally. Jack Horkheimer is better known as the Star Gazer and can be seen on PBS during a night of insomnia or nursing an infant (which is how I discovered him). Actually, he used to be known as the Star Hustler and dressed the part - gold chains and all - until political correctness took over. Now he just wears polyester sweat suits ala Tony Soprano. There are so many things I like about this guy - the first being his name. Jack Horkheimer - sounds like something that you would order at the deli. "I'll have a pound of Jack Horkheimer - shaved, not sliced." Next, is his obvious love for the science of Astronomy. This guy is way too excited about telling the audience where they can find Uranus in the night sky. My guess is that it would be most visible during a full moon, but I'm no expert (hee, hee!) Mr. Horkheimer delivers his nightly star-gazing reports with a wild-eyed smile and a raspy voice reminiscent of Harvey Feinstein as he leaps from planet to planet on his green screen set. He even has a signature sign-off, "Keep looking up!" which I think beat out Jack's first choice of, "Horkheimer Out!"
Ooohh! Gotta go - informercial guru Don Lapre is on TV telling me how I can get rich enough to upgrade my cable service.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
The Enemy Within
I am the mother of 3 small children - ages 7, 2, and 9 months. They are adorable to look at - my husband always says that the world would be a more beautiful place if we kept having children. He says that because he's a man, and therefore - having not gone through the child birth experience - doesn't know what the hell he is talking about. And, with his low threshold for pain, the world would be a less populated place if he were to birth our offspring. Besides, even if his theory were true, the world might be a more beautiful place with one hip-widening, belly flabbiness exception - me! After three children, my once athletic body is headed for early retirement. Jenny Craig has her work cut out for her.
It was while I was looking in the mirror one day and contemplating the miracles of liposuction, that I came up with my very own conspiracy theory - What if children are a secret terrorist plot to destoy society? Now I know this is not a politically correct statement to make - after all, we are talking about children - cute, adorable, fun-loving children. But that's what makes it so perfect - nobody would ever suspect them! I started imagining what the planning meetings for this devious plot would sound like. I also imagined that the terrorists would have cheesy French accents - I don't know why:
Okay, first we will weaken ze bodies of ze unsuspecting pregnant females by giving zem swollen ankles, hemeroids, and ze wimpy bladders zat will keep zem in ze toilet every ten minutes or peeing a little on zemselves when ze laugh - (insert evil laugh here - HA, HA, HA, HA!)
Next, we will deprive zem of ze sleep by instructing our infant agents (via a secret code transmitted through ze baby monitor) to wake up every 2 hours with ze loud crying. If ze parents start to zuspect anyzing, ze babies will diztract zem with ze spit-up and ze poo-poo. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE! (insert evil laugh here - HA,HA, HA, HA!)
Next, I imagined the instructions given to the tiny toddler terrorists:
Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to wreak havoc in ze lives of your parents. Your voice will always be loud. Your main weapon will be dirt - spread it everywhere ezpecially on ze walls and ze newly shampooed carpets. Rezist naps - zis iz zer only way to control you. If ze try to restrain you, you can use one of ze two methods of defense - ze wet noodle if zey try to pick you up, and ze ironing board if ze try to make you sit in ze car seat. Cuteness will be your cover. Your code name is Schnooky Poo.
Of course, we parents are not without our own ways to counter-attack our pint-size terrorist plotters. We can deploy the verbal machine gun whenever our toddler terrorist is about to touch something or someone they shouldn't - "No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no!"
There's solitary confinement - "TIME OUT! Go To Your Room!"
And the old tried and true method of appealing to their weakness - Sugar. "If you're good in the store, Mommy will buy you a lollipop the size of your head!"
Now, I must go. I just found my should-be-napping 2-year-old in her crib with all her clothes off - "Look Mommy - I nakey!".......I think I've been infiltrated.
It was while I was looking in the mirror one day and contemplating the miracles of liposuction, that I came up with my very own conspiracy theory - What if children are a secret terrorist plot to destoy society? Now I know this is not a politically correct statement to make - after all, we are talking about children - cute, adorable, fun-loving children. But that's what makes it so perfect - nobody would ever suspect them! I started imagining what the planning meetings for this devious plot would sound like. I also imagined that the terrorists would have cheesy French accents - I don't know why:
Okay, first we will weaken ze bodies of ze unsuspecting pregnant females by giving zem swollen ankles, hemeroids, and ze wimpy bladders zat will keep zem in ze toilet every ten minutes or peeing a little on zemselves when ze laugh - (insert evil laugh here - HA, HA, HA, HA!)
Next, we will deprive zem of ze sleep by instructing our infant agents (via a secret code transmitted through ze baby monitor) to wake up every 2 hours with ze loud crying. If ze parents start to zuspect anyzing, ze babies will diztract zem with ze spit-up and ze poo-poo. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE! (insert evil laugh here - HA,HA, HA, HA!)
Next, I imagined the instructions given to the tiny toddler terrorists:
Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to wreak havoc in ze lives of your parents. Your voice will always be loud. Your main weapon will be dirt - spread it everywhere ezpecially on ze walls and ze newly shampooed carpets. Rezist naps - zis iz zer only way to control you. If ze try to restrain you, you can use one of ze two methods of defense - ze wet noodle if zey try to pick you up, and ze ironing board if ze try to make you sit in ze car seat. Cuteness will be your cover. Your code name is Schnooky Poo.
Of course, we parents are not without our own ways to counter-attack our pint-size terrorist plotters. We can deploy the verbal machine gun whenever our toddler terrorist is about to touch something or someone they shouldn't - "No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no!"
There's solitary confinement - "TIME OUT! Go To Your Room!"
And the old tried and true method of appealing to their weakness - Sugar. "If you're good in the store, Mommy will buy you a lollipop the size of your head!"
Now, I must go. I just found my should-be-napping 2-year-old in her crib with all her clothes off - "Look Mommy - I nakey!".......I think I've been infiltrated.
Friday, April 29, 2005
It's A Small Parking Lot After All - Our Search For Our Car At Disney World
The following story is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the incredibly stupid....
My family and I are huge Disney fans - we have a nice collection of Disney DVD's started, our rec-room is a shrine to all things Disney (Mickey Mouse phone, a Disney princess playroom, etc.), our two-year-old daughter is convinced she's Tinkerbell (she was conceived with some happy thoughts and pixie dust, so who knows!) and if the Disney company ever reveals that Walt is indeed frozen, we'd probably try to bid for him on e-bay. He'd look nice next to the big screen T.V. So now that I have hopefully painted a successful scary picture of our obsession, you will probably conclude that the Mecca for Disney nuts like us is - of course - Walt Disney World.
It was with great excitement that we set out for Florida in our pimped-out Disney mini van (um, "pimped" is not an officially licensed word that the Disney company uses to describe things - so don't tell them). Have you seen a tan mini van with a Mickey Mouse antennae ornament, a Disney trimmed license plate frame that reads, "Been there, done that, going back", and soap-written words on the windows that read, "Disney World or Bust"? Yeah, that's us - we know we're idiots, just keep driving.
Once in the "most magical place on Earth", we pulled out all the stops. We went to character breakfasts to get Chip and Dale's autographs (which in Disney World, are not hunky men wearing nothing but a bow tie and a g-string). We spent way too much money in the gift shops buying stupid hats. Side note - only in Disney World can a person be taken seriously by others while wearing a Goofy hat with floppy ears. We ate all the best foods - Dole Whips, Chocolate Covered Mickey Ear Ice Cream Bars, and Ghiradelli Hot Fudge Sundaes which, if I want to keep this a family-friendly post, I won't say what they were better than. Let's just say that if I had eaten a Ghiradelli's Hot Fudge Sundae before I met my husband, I would be an overweight single woman with no kids.
It was on our first visit to the Magic Kingdom where we made our fatal mistake. So happy and excited were we to actually be at the House of Mouse, that we hastily parked our car, collected all our supplies for the day (stroller, video camera, stupid hats, etc), and took the monorail over the moat that separates the parking lot from the Magic Kingdom.....without making a mental note of where we had actually parked the car. We quickly came to realize our mistake at 10:00 at night after an exhausting day of fun when we got off the monorail, scanned the vast expanse that is the Magic Kingdom parking lot, and realized we were going to play a game that wasn't anywhere in our Disney Travel guides, but was a major motion picture - Dude, Where the Hell is our Car?
The Magic Kingdom parking lot is so huge that there are tram-cars that transport Disney visitors to the furthest realms and outer regions of the asphalt expanse for those unfortunate enough to be parked there. We at least knew, thankfully, that we were not in that category. We had been one of the first families to arrive, so our car was somewhere up near the front of the lot. That still did not make our job any easier. Our effort in futility began with an incredulous statement from my husband, "Let's just look for a tan mini van near the front."
"Um, honey - that describes every other mini van in this parking lot", I say trying to stay positive.
"Yes, but ours has the Mickey Mouse antennae ornament on it."
"Have you forgotten where we are vacationing!?" I say looking at an array of bobbing Mickey Mouse antennaes starring back at me.
"Well, I remember that we were parked facing grass...."my husband says with a thoughtful stare like he's Columbo trying to figure out "who dunnit".
At this point, I was thinking to myself that I hope my husband is never called to be an eye-witness for a criminal case because his testimony might begin with, "Well, I remember he had a face..."
" I think we are parked in one of the sections named after a Dwarf..."says my hopeful husband.
"You do know that there are seven Dwarfs, right?" (and I'm thinking that we are probably parked in the "Dopey" section)
"Ahh Crap."
Well, after a bit of aimless wandering and a little Divine Intervention, we found our mini van (parked facing grass) in the Minnie Mouse section ( she was the elusive eighth dwarf in Snow White, but got left on the cutting room floor). Next time, we're taking a plane. Hopefully we'll remember what terminal we board at or we'll have a lot of convincing to do when we try telling our kids that Disney World has been moved to Cleveland.
My family and I are huge Disney fans - we have a nice collection of Disney DVD's started, our rec-room is a shrine to all things Disney (Mickey Mouse phone, a Disney princess playroom, etc.), our two-year-old daughter is convinced she's Tinkerbell (she was conceived with some happy thoughts and pixie dust, so who knows!) and if the Disney company ever reveals that Walt is indeed frozen, we'd probably try to bid for him on e-bay. He'd look nice next to the big screen T.V. So now that I have hopefully painted a successful scary picture of our obsession, you will probably conclude that the Mecca for Disney nuts like us is - of course - Walt Disney World.
It was with great excitement that we set out for Florida in our pimped-out Disney mini van (um, "pimped" is not an officially licensed word that the Disney company uses to describe things - so don't tell them). Have you seen a tan mini van with a Mickey Mouse antennae ornament, a Disney trimmed license plate frame that reads, "Been there, done that, going back", and soap-written words on the windows that read, "Disney World or Bust"? Yeah, that's us - we know we're idiots, just keep driving.
Once in the "most magical place on Earth", we pulled out all the stops. We went to character breakfasts to get Chip and Dale's autographs (which in Disney World, are not hunky men wearing nothing but a bow tie and a g-string). We spent way too much money in the gift shops buying stupid hats. Side note - only in Disney World can a person be taken seriously by others while wearing a Goofy hat with floppy ears. We ate all the best foods - Dole Whips, Chocolate Covered Mickey Ear Ice Cream Bars, and Ghiradelli Hot Fudge Sundaes which, if I want to keep this a family-friendly post, I won't say what they were better than. Let's just say that if I had eaten a Ghiradelli's Hot Fudge Sundae before I met my husband, I would be an overweight single woman with no kids.
It was on our first visit to the Magic Kingdom where we made our fatal mistake. So happy and excited were we to actually be at the House of Mouse, that we hastily parked our car, collected all our supplies for the day (stroller, video camera, stupid hats, etc), and took the monorail over the moat that separates the parking lot from the Magic Kingdom.....without making a mental note of where we had actually parked the car. We quickly came to realize our mistake at 10:00 at night after an exhausting day of fun when we got off the monorail, scanned the vast expanse that is the Magic Kingdom parking lot, and realized we were going to play a game that wasn't anywhere in our Disney Travel guides, but was a major motion picture - Dude, Where the Hell is our Car?
The Magic Kingdom parking lot is so huge that there are tram-cars that transport Disney visitors to the furthest realms and outer regions of the asphalt expanse for those unfortunate enough to be parked there. We at least knew, thankfully, that we were not in that category. We had been one of the first families to arrive, so our car was somewhere up near the front of the lot. That still did not make our job any easier. Our effort in futility began with an incredulous statement from my husband, "Let's just look for a tan mini van near the front."
"Um, honey - that describes every other mini van in this parking lot", I say trying to stay positive.
"Yes, but ours has the Mickey Mouse antennae ornament on it."
"Have you forgotten where we are vacationing!?" I say looking at an array of bobbing Mickey Mouse antennaes starring back at me.
"Well, I remember that we were parked facing grass...."my husband says with a thoughtful stare like he's Columbo trying to figure out "who dunnit".
At this point, I was thinking to myself that I hope my husband is never called to be an eye-witness for a criminal case because his testimony might begin with, "Well, I remember he had a face..."
" I think we are parked in one of the sections named after a Dwarf..."says my hopeful husband.
"You do know that there are seven Dwarfs, right?" (and I'm thinking that we are probably parked in the "Dopey" section)
"Ahh Crap."
Well, after a bit of aimless wandering and a little Divine Intervention, we found our mini van (parked facing grass) in the Minnie Mouse section ( she was the elusive eighth dwarf in Snow White, but got left on the cutting room floor). Next time, we're taking a plane. Hopefully we'll remember what terminal we board at or we'll have a lot of convincing to do when we try telling our kids that Disney World has been moved to Cleveland.
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