Friday, January 29, 2010

Video Games.

Look, we have two daughters, so video games are new to us. We obviously can't handle this category of play because we're ready to rip each other's heads off. I almost threw my Wii remote across the room during a tantrum screaming, "Paige! JUMP. NOW! Who's Mario and why aren't you waiting for the rest of us? Who's Luigi? Stop PUSHING me into the fiery depths of lava! Oh, this game is the WORST! Okay, let's go again."

I'm sure I'd appear more intelligent if I was an ape scratching my ass on a rock.

I took a deep breath, collected my sanity and said, "I'm more evolved than this. I'm choosing to remove myself from this infuriating situation."

The definition of addiction is, being abnormally tolerant to and dependent on something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming. So it's official. All four of our family members are addicted to the Mario Brothers video game.

As I type this blog, my daughters are screaming at each other downstairs. "GOOOOOOO!!! Why aren't you jumping!!?! Stop pushing me!" Truly, this is a loophole whereby they have persmission to kick each other's asses and kill each other without going to jail.

This video game is tearing our family apart. Even my husband is insane. I can't count the times he's yelled, "AHHHH! This game is SO FRUSTRATING!" He almost started crying. One night, he claimed that no one was going to bed until we beat Bowser and he didn't care if we had to stay up until 2 am to complete the mission and get to World Eight.

That was Tuesday night. A school night. Luckily, we defeated the stupid fucking cartoon character and went to bed by 9:00 pm.

This game is bringing out the worst in all of us. We're screaming, scolding, and accusing, but we can't stop. Because when we do beat that stupid Bowser, we literally jump up with joy and hug as if we won the World Cup.

Defition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

I better saving up piles of money to pay for our children's therapy sessions. They're going to need it.

Off to head downstairs to serve up some consequences for treating each other with disrespect. This is what it will sound like: "Paige, you'll be sitting out the next game because you purposely pushed your sister into the lava and killed her. And you yelled at her while doing it. I will not tolerate such blatent disrepect. You guys are acting like apes. Unevolved apes."

Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. Maybe I'll leave out the part about acting like apes. I can't blame them. After all, sadly, they learned it from their parents.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Fruit.

Fruit is served at every morning business meeting, right? There's usually one chocolate doughnut tossed on the platter to placate the idiot that hasn't caught on to healthy living yet.

This is me.

For once, I'd love to see a platter of sugary doughnuts and Diet Coke (which my friend calls "Diet Cancer", taking away all enjoyment of the refreshing soda). I say we kick off the day loaded with sugar; We'll get shit done twice as fast until we crash at lunchtime. Then settle in for a nap. Done.

Needless to say, this never happens, so I'm left with an empty plate. This invites The Interrogation:

"What, are you hungover? Why aren't you eating?"
"I don't like fruit."
"What do you mean 'You don't like fruit', how can you not like fruit?"
"I don't like it."
"What about strawberries?"
"Absolutely not."

By now, I've gained the interest of about ten other meeting attendees and they're joining in to see if they can be the one to uncover the one golden fruit that I enjoy. Screw the meeting, they've got a fruit-hater on their hands. It's like a personal assault to people, as if they fucking invented fruit.

"What about pineapple? Everyone loves pineapple."
"No, I really don't. It's okay on pizza or chicken, I guess."
"You can't eat fruit with meat. That's like, illegal."
"Well then, I'm guilty."
"Okay, watermelon. You can't beat watermelon on a hot day."

This goes on until the entire list of every fruit is exhausted. Why is it such an offense to detest fruit? Why is this information so upsetting to folks?

Even my kids can't believe it. "Mom, how you refuse an orange? Are you going to die because you're not eating healthy? You should eat fruit." There is a problem when children are trying to get their mother to eat fruit and not the other way around.

So to clear things up, here's where the fruit trauma began: I tried eating kiwi once and my throat started closing up and I was rushed to the hospital. So here's how my brain comprehends fruit: "Eat fruit and die." Nice.

And with that, I will say to all meeting planners in this world: Thank you for ordering that one chocolate doughnut for breakfast meetings. I appreciate it.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

The Spin Doctor.

I am a DJ when it comes to driving my car. My daughter Paige is the Spin Doctor barking orders from the backseat:

"Mom, #5. Turn it up."
"Mom, start #6 over, Parker was talking to me."
"Mom, you're singing the wrong lyrics. Again. Stop singing."

I can barely concentrate since I'm so busy switching out cd's and changing the songs. But let's face it, I'm fucking grateful we're done with the Back Yardigans. As you can see from the video, I rather enjoy Hannah Montana, or Miley Cyrus, or whateverthehellhernameisnow. She's big enough to just become a symbol now. Like Prince.

The point is this: Errands blow ass.

And there's no escaping them. The family needs chicken, milk and cereal. The household needs toilet paper. Science projects require poster board. So why not crank the tunes and make errands less painful? Rock on dude.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Proposal To Airlines From An Anxious Flyer.

I'm writing this blog on my flight home from the Dominican during a total and complete panic attack. Sweaty armpits and all.

While chewing gum like a fucking ape, I'm surveying the state of all flight attendents. They look terrified. I'm certain one of them just got off the phone with one of the pilots: "We're going down in a heap of flames. Just keep everyone calm for their last hour of life." I swear I overheard this conversation while waiting to pee. I woke my husband up to break the news. He looked at me like I was a crack addict.

But I don't find this anxiety irrational. Not while I'm in the middle of it, anyway. I see it as fear of breaking a promise to our daughters. I promised I would be here for them when they need me. I promised that I will never leave them. I promised to take care of them even when I'm old and gray. I fucking promised I'd be home on Friday (today).

As a plane crashes, broken promises burn up in the air too, don't they?

No one else seems concerned with this shit. They're reading papers, typing on computers, playing cards and in the case of my husband...sleeping. Why isn't anyone else on this plane worried that the Grim Reaper is sitting in seat 12C? My husband is fucking sleeping. To him, this is nothing more than a car ride to Cub Foods. Why can't his peaceful slumber be contagious?

What the hell is that clunking noise? Is the metal ripping off for crissakes?

I propose a drunk tank on planes. Get rid of First Class, which is really only a bullshit attempt to make people feel superior, and use that space for a soundproof tank for anxious flyers. We should board first and have a flight attendant sing lullabies and serve tequila shots. I see nothing wrong with this scenario.

Why does it sound like the engine just cut out? What if it doesn't start again?

In fact, airlines should board according to anxiety instead of rows:
"If you involuntarily grab people's legs during bumps, you may board now." Yes, I've done this.
"If you yell, 'What the fuck was that!?' during take-off and landing, you may board the Drunk Tank now." Yes, I've done this too.
"If you are pretending calm, when in fact you're terrified, you may board The Tank now."

I see no problem sedating anxious flyers. It's legal; Dentists do it. Why couldn't they serve laughing gas instead of pop and juice? I'd pay a hefty $50 for a hit right now.

Oh Christ, we're starting to descend through stormy clouds. Is it fucking mandatory to drop 500 feet while flying through a cloud??

Oh what a beautiful sight. I can see the sparkling nighttime lights of Minneapolis. Okay, now I'm back to sound mind and body again. To all the strangers I've grabbed on a plane, I apologize. Especially to the 21 year old sitting next to me right now. I know this is your second flight and I shouldn't have pointed out every knock, bump, and bang. It is involuntary.

I mean no harm, I swear. Which reminds me, I'm also sorry for swearing while you tried sleeping next to me. I know I woke you every time I muttered, "Shitwhatthefuckwasthat!?" several times throughout the flight.

Again, I'm truly sorry. I'm a good person, I'm just a shitty flyer.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Pet Names.

As I sat in the vet's office the other day, I heard the doctor call out appointments for various patients: Sprinkles, Darla, and Killer. Killer was a chihuahua no larger than a tampon with legs. I almost stepped on him upon entering the clinic.

But I loved the witty irony. I come from a family that has fun with pet names. My sister's last name is Knapp, so they named their dog Taka. Take a nap. Anyway, it got me thinking of other names that would be a fun twist on identifying my pet.

I came up with "Grandma". I think it would be so much fun to be screaming at my dog at the park, "Grandma! Get the frisbee!" Or sitting at the dinner table with guests and telling my husband that Grandma pooped in living room again.

Or when she ran away, we could be yelling down the street and asking people if they saw Grandma sprinting through their yards. "Goddammit", I'd say in an exasperated tone. "Grandma is always trying to escape. She runs like the fucking wind."

When the Invisible Fence trainer arrived with a collar my husband could say, "Honey, go get Grandma. We need to make sure this collar fits nice and snug."

Dogs don't care what their name is as long as they're loved and fed. Why not have some fun with it?

My new motto is this: "Life is funny. Enjoy the ride while finding the deeper lessons offered in it." Yes, we can be serious and passionate about our life purpose, but shouldn't we laugh along the way?

And having a dog named Grandma would make me laugh every single day. That might be worth another dog purchase, although I don't know if our bulldog named Rocket would agree. He would probably try to kick Grandma's ass for stealing all our attention.