It happens every single year. My kids decide to edit their list to Santa weeks out from the big day. Do you think Santa can just whip up a PS4? No, that s*** is complicated and sold out everywhere and someone should have planned ahead. Here is something that, as an adult, boggles my mind. The fact that kids buy the story that Santa makes the toys. If Target has the action figure or doll you want then why the hell would Santa have to make them? Santa isn’t using a hammer. He is swiping the hell out of his Red Card. My 6-year-old told St. Nick at a recent “Story-time With Santa” event at our local library that he wants a Monster Truck. He has never played with a truck in his life. Ever. Was he so nervous that he blurted out the first thing that popped in his head? Santa read one book at that event and let’s just say he needs to either slow down or practice his sight words.
My kids aren’t entirely to blame for causing holiday stress. There are those random people who will ask, “Have you written your letter to Santa yet?” Hey a**hole, he did that months ago. In fact, I have nearly everything on his list. Why would you encourage him to want even more stuff after Black Friday. Are you Satan? I was nearly trampled to death to get this Lego. He is going to play with it, damn it. Mama would have to whore herself out to buy anything else.
Then, there are the commercials. The G*D damn commercials. My kids want everything they see on television. “Mom, look, look, look, look, look, look, I want that. Hurry. look, look, look, look, look. I want that for Christmas.” I can’t get them to pay attention when putting on their shoes, but they stop dead in their tracks when a commercial about a stretchy stuffed animal comes on. Have you ever wondered why kids lift up the wrong foot when you’re helping them put on socks or shoes? Every. Damn. Time. “No, other foot. The other foot!” Are they messing with us?
A friend of mine shared this post about a kid’s insane Christmas wish list. I laughed so hard I cried. The author is Drew Magary who writes for Deadspin and is a correspondent for GQ. If my uterus wasn’t in retirement I would totally have his baby. He is hysterical.
Click the link here to read his post: DEADSPIN.COM
Please help me understand the ‘Elf on the Shelf’ craze. A toy elf is supposedly watching your kids and reporting back to Santa? I will tell my kids that a giant bunny rabbit leaves candy and a fairy steals their teeth, but I am drawing the line at the creepy elf. My kids wouldn’t buy it anyway. I took my son to see Santa Claus and he informed me that it wasn’t the real St. Nick. “Mom, the real Santa Claus doesn’t drive a pickup truck.” Right. I am such a fool. It is more believable that an obese man defies the law of gravity zipping through the sky on a sleigh with flying elves. A friend of mine had to kill off the Elf on the Shelf because her kid was completely terrified. Imagine you’re a kid and the elf is never in the same place twice. One minute it’s on the mantel and the next it’s in the refrigerator. Now, while I am not a fan of the elf I love these inappropriate pictures.
I think it goes without saying that most people are sick of the song “Royals” by Lorde. She lost me after the SNL performance where she danced like a gypsy. Is it a rule that you need to be a freak when you have a good voice? This tune is beyond overplayed on the radio. However, this cover is “beast.” Did you see what I did right there? I tried to relate to the younger generation. I was cool beans. Now, let me slip back into my Keds and explain. “Beast” is how kids describe something gnarly.
Cam Anthony, who is just 12-years-old, is destined for stardom if his Mom will a.) hold the damn phone horizontally when recording b.) make the other kid in the background shut the hell up so we can hear Cam sing. Just think, someday this kid can call Anne Frank a fan, speed through his neighborhood and take a piss in a restaurant garbage can. Ah, the American dream. Anyway, Cam has got some pipes. Go on with your bad self little man.
My husband wants to give me a chore for Christmas. He keeps talking about how great it would be to have a Sodastream. “Just think you could make your own soda whenever you want.” Yeah, or I could just grab a can out of the refrigerator, flip a metal tab and take a swig. With three kids I don’t have time to eat a hot plate of food. Now, you want me to die of thirst, too? Someone once lectured me about drinking Diet Coke. “Do you know that it can remove rust? Imagine what it is doing to your body.” I was siked! I can drink it and clean with it? Sweet! My husband has also said, “Think of how much money we can save!” We could also save money by churning our own butter and making our own clothes.
I have never expressed a desire to make my own soda. Who am I kidding? We call it “pop” around these parts. Soda is pop. Lollipops are suckers. It doesn’t matter what you call it. I don’t want to make it. I am hoping he keeps bringing up the Sodastream to throw me off his scent. Perhaps he plans to buy me an awesome gift. Honestly, I don’t really care if I get anything. I just don’t want a chore for Christmas. (You can also return the vacuum, dishwasher, iron, broom, etc.) This whole thing reminds me of this Jim Gaffigan bit:
Ron Burgundy anchored a real newscast in North Dakota. Hats off to his co-anchor for keeping her composure.
I love the first snowfall of the year. Local TV stations bust out the annual cold weather stories. Will the county have enough rock salt to clear the roads? Are the plows gassed up? Shoveling is difficult. Kids like to go sledding. I always dreaded that assignment as a reporter. It is riveting television.
We had our first blast of winter this week. My children were giddy when they looked out the window and saw a blanket of snow.
After spending what seemed like an eternity helping them put on cold weather gear we had a snowball fight, made snow angels and attempted to make a snowman. The fun ended when my 6-year-old decided to bury his face in the snow. “It burns. It burns.”
I giggled, comforted him and brought everyone inside; in that order.
I coaxed my 4-year-old daughter into the house with hot chocolate. She expected cocoa ready and waiting on the table. Unfortunately, our chef had the day off. “You said I could have hot chocolate.” I calmly explained that I needed to make it and by make it I mean microwave the milk. I hung the coats, gloves and hats to dry. Then, I went into the garage to organize the wet boots. Next, I would make the hot cocoa. That was a big mistake, HUGE. My daughter closed the door behind me and locked it. “Open this door,” I demanded. Nope. She was pouting on the couch. So, I hollered to my 6-year-old, “Unlock the door please!” He tried over and over and over again, but couldn’t get it open. Perhaps my prediction that he would grow up to be a rocket scientist is a little far fetched. He said, “Sorry can’t get it” and went back to playing Lego Batman 2. We eventually got inside through the front door. Then, I showed my daughter who is boss. She did not get any extra marshmallows with her hot chocolate.
My kids are brilliant. I know, we all think we birthed Einstein when they are toddlers. Jimmy knows all his colors. Susie can already count to ten. Blah, blah, blah. Those kids usually peak too soon. My first born could barely hold a crayon and was roaring like a dragon in everyone’s face in pre-k. I thought it was cute. Apparently one kid was afraid of him. His mother invited us to her house for a playdate. I thought she just wanted the boys to be friends. I later learned she just wanted to show her son that mine wouldn’t hurt him. She is lucky I didn’t hurt her when I found out her ulterior motive. Fast forward a decade and my 8th grader’s overall average the first marking period was a 97.79%. My first grader has already been dubbed a “Math wiz” by his teacher. My daughter’s vocabulary is ridiculous. The world is their oyster. They can be anything they want to be when they grow up. Well, anything, but Amish. We lost power tonight and it took ten minutes for them to go bananas. What are we supposed to do without the internet? My daughter entertained us for the first five minutes singing songs and telling stories.
She makes up some wild stories and likes to bust into rhyme. No, it doesn’t always make sense. It’s art. Tonight, her story had a refrain that started with “tick tock…..” She would change the rhyme each time. “Tick tock went the clock, tick tock she hit the rock, tick tock on a dock, tick tock who wants a cock.” Screech! Did she really just say…? Yes, she did, but thankfully she has no idea what it meant. After a (much cleaner) encore we decided to go to grandma’s house (who still had power.) No more cock songs for us.
Advice columns make you feel better about your own life.
I was obsessed with Dear Abby when I was younger. She was one sassy broad. I also hung posters of Kenny Rogers on my wall. I knew all the words to “The Gambler” when I was in elementary school. Discuss….
I didn’t think anyone could fill Abby’s shoes, but along came Amy. “Ask Amy” is a daily advice column printed in newspapers around the country. Those of you under 20 are scratching your heads asking What is this thing called a newspaper that she speaks of? It is the internet on a piece of paper minus obnoxious selfies, pictures of your lunch and video of annoying fruit. When you are done with the paper you can use it to line bird cages, cover books and dry out wet shoes. (Put newspaper in wet shoes and by morning they will be dry. The paper absorbs the moisture. You’re welcome for that useful tip.)
If you are so inclined to have a stranger make important life decisions for you then Amy Dickinson has all the answers. Her recent response to a homophobic parent is perfect.
A pre-school teacher is being criticized for a letter she penned to parents. Take a look:
I don’t see anything wrong with it. Sure, it would have been more professional to speak to the parents face to face. Perhaps, she suspected the parents would become argumentative or even violent. Maybe she couldn’t find them. Calling social services would probably be a waste of time. Would you take offense if your child was well taken care of? I wouldn’t. She clearly wrote this note while being held hostage because there is no way a teacher’s handwriting can be that bad. I don’t agree with the fact that she wanted the children to read it. I also find it odd that she expects a 3 or 4-year-old child to sign his/her name? Is that part of Common Core?
I heard someone say the teacher should expect to have children in her class with dirty clothes and/or bodies. After all, the school is in Buffalo, NY, a high poverty, urban community. My grandmother, who raised six kids alone after leaving an abusive relationship, always said, “being poor is not an excuse to be filthy.” They didn’t have much, but they had self respect. They bathed, clothes were washed and their house was clean.
When my husband and I were first married we didn’t have two nickels to rub together. He was a private in the U.S. Army. I think the cashier at McDonald’s made more money. We used a futon for a couch. At times, I washed clothes in the bathtub. There is no excuse. Yes, there are good people who end up in bad situations. There are good parents who have no where to turn. If that is the case I hope they get the help they need. However, after there are many more parents who just suck and should not be allowed to have children.
These children deserve better. They don’t want to, nor should they have to walk around looking like Pig-Pen. Perhaps their parents should trade in the flat screen TV for a bar of soap. Maybe they should spend cigarette money at the laundromat.
Kudos to this teacher! I hope the district doesn’t punish her for doing what is best for these children.
Women everywhere will laugh hysterically reading this list. Men will cringe. It is fantastic!
Click this link: 27 Bizarre Things That All Women Have Done At Least Once