My iPad says funny stuff, too

I got an iPad Mini for Christmas. I love it. I particularly like conversing with Siri and pretending I’m Samuel L. Jackson. Naturally my kids think Siri is pretty awesome. Actually, only my daughter will admit Siri is fun; my son will not admit anything is fun unless he discovered it.

The more you use her, the more Siri becomes accustomed to your voice, so she’s pretty down with me. My daughter has a much higher, brighter voice. It gives Siri fits.

Daughter: Siri, what is the wind chill today?

Siri: I’m afraid I don’t understand.

Daughter: What is the wind chill today?

Siri: I don’t know. Shall I search the Internet for “My fellatio football”?

 

 

 

 

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Step right up and get your grievances!

Once upon a time, I was a loyal Seinfeld viewer; I’m still known to say, “No soup for you!” But eventually, Elaine Benes wore me down. Unable to take anymore of her self-involved whining, I stopped watching. This explains why I am probably the last person in my blogosphere to know about Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us.

While I come to the Festivus party late—far too late to be fashionable—it seems to be a holiday tailor-made for me. Among the holiday’s traditions is the airing of grievances. In my mind, grievances call for a rant, and I do so love a rant, so here we go!

Stop saying you’re “so depressed” when you’re sad. Depression isn’t just being sad. Depression is being unable to get out of bed, thinking the world would be better off without you, wanting to just fade away. Depression is sitting on the couch convinced that life is pointless, not sitting on the couch eating a quart of ice cream crying. Sad is painful but knows that life will get better; depression doesn’t.

If I promise to only use the term “ big beautiful woman” to refer to big beautiful women, can we promise not to call thin women “skinny bitches?” Really, why is it any more politically correct to malign the thin than the overweight? See? I can’t even bring myself to type the f-word, the one that rhymes with “cat,” not that other one.

No more tailgating. Just no. Never. Ok? I sort of understand it in the far left lane on the highway. But in my neighborhood? Where the speed limit is 40 mph? And there are children and golden retrievers running into the street chasing after soccer balls? I’m gonna brake for Lassie, butthole, so just keep your Hummer off my tail.

Christmas lights! Stringing five different colors of lights end to end and then hanging them in a straight line that extends from the edge of the garage, over the top of the front door and then drapes across the row of hedges in front of your living room windows is not decorating. It’s not even redneck; it’s not even Honey Boo Boo redneck. And a string of lights is not an extension cord. We clear on that?

Everyone in my family who empties the kitchen trash: put another bag in the can. And, if you don’t, you don’t get to laugh at Mommy when she swears after dropping a handful of disgusting into the unlined can.

While we’re on family issues . . . darling children, why should Mommy help you clean the toxic waste dumps you call your rooms? You have no idea how little I care if you can’t find your panda pajamas or the T-shirt that your girlfriend likes to wear because it smells like you.  In my time, mothers closed the door on their children’s messes. I am not about to dishonor my mother’s advice and she’s dead so she can’t tell you that her mother cleaned her room every day. I am nobody’s grandmother, though you love reminding me that I’m old enough to have birthed half of your friends’ parents. By the way, this does not make Mommy want to clean your room, either.

And last, but not least, can we put the Christmas/Xmas/Holidays thing to rest? Nobody’s trying to take the Christ out of Christmas by using Xmas. Actually, didn’t Christmas start out without Christ in it? So really, were putting Christ in Christmas every year. I’m just sayin’.

That brings us to holiday greetings. Can’t say “Merry Christmas” because it tends to leave out the people who celebrate Hanukkah, Diwali, Kwanza, though I’m not sure that’s supposed to be “merry” so much as meaningful. There’s “Happy Holidays.” While it’s inclusive–probably too inclusive for atheists–it’s kind of wishy-washy. Naturally, we could say “Happy Festivus” but I’m pretty sure that leaves more people than in includes. Besides, most of my friends would just look at me with a blank stare. Okay, I’m kind of used to that, but I don’t like to knowingly solicit it.

I was going to propose we say “Peace be with you,” but that reminds me of that oh-so-uncomfortable moment in church services where you are forced encouraged to greet the people around you. If I wanted to say something to them, I would have. Don’t make me clasp their hand and try to say something sincere when all I can think of is the germs that are getting spread at the height of flu season.

I don’t like to point out a problem and not have a solution, but I don’t have anything witty or profound to say in place of “have a good one” during the holiday season. But I have a great idea for what to think:

Peace on Earth, good will to all. May you live in safety and be happy.

My kids say funny stuff, too 12

http://www.contortionchris.com

I recently attended an event in which my daughter flipped her body around in ways that frighten me. In other words: a gymnastics demonstration. My son had to attend as well, much to his dismay. Rather than watch his sister perform, he sulked in the hall. Performance over, we headed to the car along with daughter’s friend and her mother. My son was nowhere to be seen.

Me: Where could he have gone?

Friend’s mom: Maybe he ran away with the circus.

Daughter: Nah. He hasn’t got the talent.

 

No More Words

Big Bird will get no support from me. The National Endowments for the Humanities and the Arts aren’t on my charitable donation lists either. And I’m not giving a cent to another politician, not even the liberals.

I am giving my money to the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence. I am giving them money because dead children can’t watch Sesame Street, study the humanities or create art. I am giving money because I, and other supporters of gun control, have been yapping and moaning for years and nothing has changed. I am putting my money where my mouth is.

Nothing happens in this country without money. The latest presidential election cost more than two billion dollars. That’s a hell of a lot of lettuce with not much sandwich to show for it. If you think money doesn’t matter in the gun control debate, look at what’s happening on the other side. Blake Zeff, at CapitalNewYork.com wrote:

The N.R.A. has an estimated yearly budget of $220 million, and spent $64.5 million over the last decade to influence federal elections, targeting wayward legislators for defeat and providing an implicit threat to others that they mean business.

The leading gun control group, the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence, spent $3.1 million in 2010, the most recent year for which they have an annual report online. Its spending over the last decade on federal elections? Just over half a million dollars, according to the Center for Responsive Politics.

In other words, in the last decade, the NRA has out-spent the Brady Campaign by more than 2000% in federal elections. Yes, 2000%. With clout (read: money) like that, is it any wonder candidates are afraid to piss off the gun lobby? Clearly, gun control doesn’t have a big gun in this fight.

I don’t want to debate the fine points of gun control right now. You can read a thought-provoking piece by Nicholas D. Kristoff of the New York Times that addresses the issues and offers some possible solutions.

I don’t want to debate the fine points not because I’m a chicken. I don’t want to debate the fine points because there is no sense debating the fine points if we don’t have the financial backing to scare the crap out of our elected officials.

My dinky donation won’t make a huge dent in the 2000% disparity. Remember, though, that donations of $250 or less make up the greatest part of financing for almost every campaign and non-profit organization.

Right now, the Brady Campaign has a form you can fill out to send condolences to Newtown. Don’t do it. Instead, click to make a donation. Hugs may feel good, but they won’t change policy. In politics, it’s money that talks.

A moment of silence

I was working on a post for today when my husband called. He had that “somebody’s died” heaviness in his voice, then he told me about the shooting in Connecticut. My post was, I had hoped, going to make you laugh. I don’t have it in me anymore. Running is my meditation, so I’m going to go run right now. I’ll probably cry, too.

Help a family adopt; get a Christmas snowflake. What’s not to love?

I love the blogging world and how it brings me in touch with people I would otherwise never meet. Just like the adoption community does. So, my friends who’ve adopted, I’m reblogging a post from a military family looking to adopt a special needs child internationally. You all know how dreadfully expensive this can be. For just $10, you can help them out and get a pretty Christmas ornament. There’s a really sweet story behind the ornament, too; it’s in the same vein as the hundred good wishes quilts.

So, people, read this touching blog post and pony up for the ornament. You help a military family in a more tangible way than posting to your Facebook wall. Like I said, what’s not to love?

Adoption.

My kids say funny stuff, too 11

Giving a boy with ADHD responsibility for the family’s laundry probably wasn’t our best call. All too often we found ourselves with nothing but air in our underwear drawers. One night, my husband wondered when he would see his tidy whities again.

“Son,” he said. “Are you planning to do the laundry soon?”

“No, Dad. Why?”

“Well, because tomorrow morning I will have no underwear to wear to work.”

Our son considered his dad’s dilemma and said, “No problem. Just borrow some of mine. We can be Boxer Buddies.”

Dear Dave Grohl

First, let me say this: you are one of my favorite rock stars.

You’re talented. With that guitar/drum/piano playing thing, hell, you could record an album all by yourself. Oh, wait, you did. See what I mean. Tal. En. Ted.

I love your music. No, let me rephrase. I freaking love your music. I don’t have a single running playlist that doesn’t include at least one Foo Fighters song. Your tempos and my cadence are a match made in heaven. That I run to “Walk” puts an “I’ve got a secret” smile on my face that makes the other runners jealous. Ok, they aren’t jealous. They look at me and think I’m nuts.

You would probably get my little inside joke, though, ‘cause you’re hilarious! Most of your videos have me laughing out loud. I love a guy who isn’t afraid to put on some braces, a wig with ponytails, and a dress for his art.

You’re resilient.  That whole Kurt Cobain thing could have really messed you up, but you got on with your life. And Nirvana? Hello! Way to entirely change the face of music in your own time. Good job, dude!

You are practically a rock god. And that’s my problem.

My son adores you. In fact, my son is the reason I know who you are at all. Because I don’t want to be listening to Jackson Brown and the Beatles in the nursing home, I’m up for hearing anything my son brings my way. And he brought you.

In addition to loving your music, my son sees himself in you. You play drums; my son plays drums. You play guitar; my son plays guitar. You care more about the music than the rock star trappings. My son cares more about the music than being a rock star.

You are, in short, my son’s hero, so I’d like you to do something for me. I know I’m about to sound like a narrow-minded suburban mom with a stick up my ass. Well, let me set you straight right now. I am a very broad-minded suburban mom with a stick up my ass. So here goes.

Please stop making jokes about how you dropped out of high school.

My son and I saw you on Chelsea Lately the other night. You were, in fact, the only reason we watched at all. The conversation went like this:

Chelsea: (after some preliminary chat) And you dropped out of high school!

You: Yeah! (that’s when you and Chelsea high-fived, even though Chelsea graduated from Livingston High School in 1993.)

Then you addressed the audience, saying, “Stay in school and don’t do drugs or you’ll end up like me!”

Dave, that is exactly what my son wants to do . . .end up like you. Never mind that you started playing in bands at 13. Never mind that you quit school to join Scream on their European tour at 17. Never mind that my son hasn’t played in a band yet. All he wants to do is play music; he has no interest in homework when he can pass the tests without studying or doing the “stupid busy work.” He has no interest in high school at all.

Dropping out of high school was the right thing for you to do. Your mom told you so. Dropping out of high school is not the right thing for my son.

When my son was younger, he wouldn’t eat vegetables. I told him, “I bet if Dave Grohl told you to eat your vegetables, you would.” “Mom,” he said, “I would eat my plate if Dave Grohl told me to.”

So, Dave, back off the drop out jokes. Whether you want to be or not, you are a role model.

Thanks!

Janice

My kids say funny stuff, too 10

Photo: HLNTV

The scene: my bedroom. I’m getting dressed while my daughter watches.

Daughter: You’re fat, Mommy.

Me: I am NOT fat!

Daughter: Well, you’re not fat like that lady on TV.

Me: What lady?

Daughter: You know . . .the one who got run over by a forklift.

Me: What are you talking about!?

Daughter: Oh, you know . . .Honey Boo Boo’s mom.