A Temporary Twilight Sucker

Okay, I’ll admit it. I saw Twilight. Two times. But the second time doesn’t count because it was at the cheap theater on a girls’ night out and I was totally outnumbered.

And yes, I’ve read all the books, and I’ve propagated the Twilight madness by loaning them out to countless friends and family. I understand that such a confession may cause my readers (yes, all three of you) to lose some respect for me, because if anything, I’m sure this blog inspires oodles of respect for the eczema-stricken, dirty-van driving, Twilight-reading soccer mom.

So last weekend me and five other women went to the downtown showing of Twilight and watched the movie yet again. And no it hadn’t changed since the first time I saw it. It’s still the same old vortex of vampires, teen angst, and pubescent romance with a slamin’ baseball scene. And yes, there are still those awkward moments where the film editor must have fallen asleep at his key grip, leaving viewers with long, odd shots of pained facial expressions. No matter; it was a good excuse to eat movie popcorn.

The first time I watched Twilight was days after its initial release (yes, I paid full price the first time I saw it. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.). We went one hour early to secure a good seat. I went with my sister, my BFF and her husband (yes Jason, I’m calling you out), and for 60 minutes we watched the theater fill with teenage girls, giggling with anticipation while texting anyone who wasn’t there to share the moment with them. And there we were smack dab in the middle of the theater, feeling just a titch out of place.

The second time I watched Twilight the theater was full of women roughly my age, a few accompanied by their significant others who were either under the false impression that this vampire movie included much more blood sucking than it did or they were involved in some high-stakes barter that included considerable payback later. Either way, I felt much more comfortable the second time I saw it, if for no other reason I was surrounded by other Twilight suckers like myself.

And for the record, I must also admit that I don’t believe the Twilight series need be admitted into the canon of great American literature (yes, Stephen King, I side with you there), but there’s something about telling a good story that can captivate young and middle-aged alike. That and using some British kid with unbelievably long and messy hair to play Edward who, according to my BFF (yes Ashley, I’m calling you out) is “yummy."

And for my last confession I will admit that I just might watch Twilight a third time. Tonight while the world is celebrating their love, you may find me in the cheap theater yet again sucked into that vortex of vampires, teen angst, and pubescent romance accompanied by nothing but my family-size bucket of popcorn. You’re welcome to join me…

Soccer Hell

I went to soccer hell tonight and lived to tell about it. And by soccer hell I mean AYSO registration at the local elementary school (and you think the lines at Disneyland are long).

If you follow any of my advice, let it be this: do not bring three children with you to soccer registration. We arrived 10 minutes early and were at the end of a line that started at one end of the cafeteria and weaved out into the hallway. By the time we left that line snaked from one end of the cafeteria all the way down the hallway, past the auditorium, out the side door and down the sidewalk. I looked solemnly at the people at the end of the line and offered my sincerest apologies; they were not appreciated.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Way ahead.

We arrived at 6:20 to a stack of forms. I diligently sat down at a table and began to write; my children proceeded to run around like wild banshees, and I proceeded to pretend like they belonged to someone else. It wasn’t until we had been there for nearly an hour that things took a turn for the worst.

We had finally made it back through the threshold of the cafeteria when Leah and Zack began to fight over the drinking fountain. And by “fight,” I mean brawl, and by “brawl” I mean that Leah began to whoop on her brother like she was making a guest appearance on the WWE. I made the mistake of deciding to wait out the brawl. They couldn’t kill each other, right? Right. But Leah could put her brother in a chokehold that might impair his long-term vision.

My question to you is this: do you leave your place in the three-mile long soccer line to ensure your youngest offspring, who just told you this morning that he would rather live with you forever than grow up and go to college, doesn’t lose his vision to his sister in a drinking fountain brawl? No way! You stand there and yell your daughter’s name across the cafeteria, attracting all sorts of negative attention while your daughter, lost in her own victory, ignores you.

Finally, Zack escaped, and Leah, from across the cafeteria, felt the dreaded burn of my mommy laser gaze and sheepishly came to stand beside me. “What, Mom?” As if she didn’t know. “You will stand by me until we’re finished,” I commanded.

What followed was the longest temper tantrum in soccer hell history (look for us in Guinness next year). For 15 minutes my daughter wailed at my side, begging me to give her one more chance not to kill her brother over the drinking fountain. There was also periodic jumping, stomping, and pouting. Did I mention that the soccer line had outlasted their bedtime?

When all was said and done, I had stood in line for one hour and paid over one hundred dollars to ensure that my three children were enrolled in spring soccer, meaning that every Saturday for three months I will be watching approximately 210 minutes worth of soccer games. That’s a total of 2,520 minutes of AYSO fun (who said I wasn’t good at math).

And you thought soccer moms were chauffeurs dressed in trendy Gap clothing. No, no, my friends. Soccer moms are the bastions of patience, perseverance, and a piercing laser gaze.

So when do I get MY trophy? (By the way, if I have to stand in line for it, no thanks.)

Are You Smarter than a Second Grader?

I don’t claim to be very bright. But I thought my children would graduate from elementary school before surpassing my IQ. My son’s in the second grade, and he’s quickly becoming the forerunner for smartest-in-the-house. My reign was short-lived.

It doesn’t help that a lot of the stuff I learned in school is outdated. Yes, I’m that old. Like Pluto. A couple years ago it received an interstellar demotion and is no longer a planet. So, "My Very Excellent Mother Just Made Us Nine Pizzas," no longer applies.

And neither does Roy G. Biv. Remember that one? Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet: the color sequence of the rainbow. Well apparently, “indigo” was fired because it was unable to adequately distinguish itself from Blue and Violet. And there was no press release for that one. I only found out after missing the question while playing Cranium. I lost, by the way, in Cranium. The irony in that does not escape even me.

All this makes me highly unqualified to help my children with their homework. Unless, of course, the new definition of “help” is nag until it’s done. If that's the case then someone please crown me Queen Homework Helper, because that is an arena in which I excel. In fact, is there were a board game for nagging, I’d challenge anyone of you people. Bring it.

But alas, even with my subpar intellect, I know that helping my children with their homework requires just as much guidance as it does, ahem, encouragement. But what kind of tutor am I? I can barely remember my multiplication tables without the help of a Pee Chee folder (and they don’t even sell those anymore).

My son’s taken to asking me obscure questions like, “Is an otter a mammal?” or “What plants come from spores?” or, my personal favorite, “How does a whale go to the bathroom?” This is where I must be honest and acknowledge that my master’s degree is in creative writing. So I could answer all my son’s questions with stunning brilliance that includes unforgettable details and perhaps a Greek hero with a tragic flaw, but I’m sure it would eventually land the poor kid in the principal’s office. So my typical answer always includes, “Let’s Google that one later, okay?” My kids think Google is like Einstein or something.

So there you have it. Apparently I am not smarter than a second grader. Now wiser, that’s another question. Okay, so it’s not, people. Do I get brownie points for being old?

Anyone, anyone?

I haven't been posting...

So I decided that instead of having a whole new blog, I would just change the name of this one. And I would try to post now and then... The two posts below are from the column, but I do have A LOT of other stuff I want to post about, and one of my New Year's unResolutions is to get busy and post. We'll see how that goes.

Thanks for stopping by (and not giving up on my lil ole blog...).

The unResolution

It’s that time of year again, where we aspire to become better (and thinner) people. I always get tense when friends start talking about the New Year. There’s so much pressure to make a list of resolutions—to start dieting, to go to the gym, to be nice. Isn’t life difficult enough already?

And I’ll be honest; I haven’t been too successful in my prior relationship with The Resolution. Maybe my expectations have been too high, my goals unrealistic, the onion blossom too tempting. Go figure.

So this year I’m taking a new approach to my New Year’s goals. No more unrealistic, overwhelming, grandiose resolutions. This year they will be completely attainable. Take a peek:

1. Don’t yell at my kids, after bedtime. Because I’ll wake them up if I do.
2. Lose all the weight I gained from December18st to January 3rd. News Flash: I won’t be acting as the Weight Watchers spokesperson anytime soon. I’m already on probation for all those lies I told you about holiday goodies being worth one point. What will they say when they discover I’ve outgrown my skinny jeans (purchased a mere 16 days ago)? So my second unresolution is to lose all the holiday cheer stuck to my backside.
3. Stop Googling illnesses and their corresponding symptoms. My regular readers know that I’m a closet hypochondriac who consults Dr. Google every time my nose itches. Google will no longer be my homepage in 2009, nor will I continue visiting that wretched WrongDiagnosis.com.
4. Vacuum my stairs. Okay, so I’m commitment-phobe who is unwilling to resolve anything more domestic than a once-over with the handi-vac. Baby steps.
5. Be more positive. Right. Whatever. Like that’s going to happen. Okay, I’m just kidding. I will try to become all zen and stuff through meditation and positive affirmations designed to achieve good karma. Or I could just stop using pseudo swear words around the kids.

There you have it: my five New Years unResolutions. And seeing as how today is January 1st, 2009, I must remind myself to step away from the cheese ball and get back on that elliptical! See, they’re working already.

Happy New Year!

Why I'm Not Smart Enough to Be Santa

My oldest child is in the second grade and has been informed that Santa is not real. Some third-grade Grinch told my son that parents really masquerade as Santa Claus, filling stockings and leaving presents under the tree in the name of Jolly Old Saint Nick. Unless that kid’s parents are indeed Father Christmas, I don’t know what he’s talking about, because I’m not smart enough to be Santa. And I’ll tell you why.

First of all, I can hardly remember the names of my own three children let alone nine reindeer. And those elves? If you ask me, Santa’s running a sweatshop, and even Kathy Lee Gifford couldn’t get away with that. Only a jolly fellow like Kris Kringle, who pays his staff with sugar cookies and ski lift tickets, can make that racket work.

Not only that, but I don’t have the organizational skills required to hide presents from my own children until December 25th. I once “hid” the marshmallows from Zack and then forgot where they were, until I found him sitting on the counter stuffing them into his mouth (I had hidden them in the back of the silverware drawer—who hides marshmallows in the silverware drawer? Me, apparently.).

I also don’t know enough about the greater toy world to even pronounce half the things my children want. Would someone please tell me what distinguishes a Spectacular Spiderman action figure from your average, run-of-the mill Spiderman action figure? I leave those weightier issues to the big man in the red suit.
In fact, Santa would probably make a better parent than me. I’ve told you that the mere mention of Santa’s Naughty List will whip my kids into better shape than any Love and Logic strategy. Not that I plan on vacating my position anytime soon. I’m just sayin’.

Add to that the fact that I don’t drive well in the snow, have a horrible sense of geography, and wouldn’t be able to afford all those cookies on my Weight Watchers plan, and you have a mommy that can’t even apply for Santa’s job, let alone perform it.

So to all you children out there who think your moms and dads are doing Santa’s job, let me just say that in behalf of most parents in the free world, we don’t have the brain cells for it. Santa runs a tight ship and has to remember more things than I can track on my grocery list, so power to the big man. He’s doing a fine job and I won’t rock the boat by questioning his existence.

Will you?

Merry Christmas!

Out with the Old, In with the New

I’ve outgrown this here blog, and it’s time for something new. Thanks so much to all of you who have been reading. I hope you’ll join me at http://journey-to-joy.blogspot.com/.

My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer

We bought our house in September, when the two big trees in our front yard were brilliant with color. Standing on the corner of our lot you could look down our numbered street and see a canopy of trees stretched tall and wide with fiery leaves. It was so romantic as to induce a series of heart-felt sighs.

In October we moved in, after the two big trees in our front yard had vomited all their leaves in a thick carpet that lay, wet and slimy, on our grass. Shortly thereafter, we raked and we raked until our palms were blistered and some 20-odd garbage sacks were filled with tree waste.

Last year I discovered a leaf blower hidden in the bowels of my dry vac, and upon plugging it in, was delighted to discover that magical thing would blow all the leaves off my yard and into the gutter in no time at all. I was in love and, will admit only here, I may have had a few terms of endearment reserved for my beloved leaf blower alone.

This year my children decided to help me rake the leaves and created one huge pile in my front yard, after which they insisted that this chore, inspired only by their love and concern for me, should earn them each a dollar. Those cute little capitalists.

And then it rained. It rained before I had a chance to retrieve My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer to disperse the leaves and move them to the gutter. And if you don’t know how rain can thwart the powerful magic of a leaf blower, let me tell you.

That pile ‘o leaves, which my children had so lovely gathered together for me, had become a thick, immovable mass. My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer blew and blew, and nary a leave budged. Okay, so that’s not true. There was some budging, there was some flipping and flopping (because that’s what wet, congealed leaves do after they’ve been composting in your front yard through a series of rain storms), but there was NO magical swooshing, where the leaves, as if commanded by something stronger than Nature herself, would dance their way to the streets.

So after two hours with My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer (and two very numb feet), I still have a fairly large pile ‘o leaves in my front yard. Although I did unearth half a bag of Halloween candy, two rakes, one broomstick, one plastic snow shovel, and a handful of squirt guns. My cute little capitalists were obviously doing more than just raking leaves in my front yard.

If the rain stops, today I will find myself on another date with My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer, once again trying to move that sopping leaf pile into the gutter.

A leaf pile, remember, for which I paid three dollars…

Happy Halloween!

In a fit of insanity I agreed to make my kids’ costumes this year. Yes, me, the 4-H flunkie, decided to tackle my children’s three unconventional and bizarre Halloween selections just two weeks before the 31st.

The Dreaded Question: What do you want to be for Halloween this year?

When you ask it in September you give children more than enough time to consider elaborate, ornate, and eBay-able costumes. You also give them nine weeks in which to change their minds. Over and over again. When you ask it on October 15th, you run the risk of not being able to find their selections at Wal-Mart, however, at that point there are no taksies backsies and you have a definitive choice.

Upon being asked the Dreaded Question, Kaleb and Zack, with boyish resolution, supplied one-word answers.

Kaleb: Avatar

Zack: RobotBoy

Decisive and to-the-point. Of course I had to Google them both later to find out exactly what they were, but no matter, I still had sixteen days to sort it all out.

Leah, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as concise. Upon being asked the Dreaded Question, she spun around in a circle and then, performing a deep plei, answered, “I want to be a ballerina princess riding a Pegasus unicorn.” What? This is Halloween, not Fantasy Island.

In seasons past they have all made more conventional, mass-produced selections like Tinkerbell, Elmo, and Spiderman. This year their imaginations had outrun Wal-Mart’s suppliers, and I was left to make a very difficult decision: to sew or not to sew. As mentioned previously, I chose crazy; I chose to sew.

The fifteen dollar costume is a beautiful thing, and only once before have I foregone the convenience of ready-made Halloween-wear. And that one time amounted to an entire week of late nights and pseudo swear words. This year would prove to be no different.

After 72 hours with a pile of fabric, two boxes of Rit dye, a beaded leotard, one iron-on, and a very tall stack of chick flicks, I emerged with three unique, hand-crafted, custom-made Halloween costumes. My children have never been more proud. Or more strangely dressed.

Which proves you can be whatever you want for Halloween.

Me? I’m Martha Stewart this year. Spooky, right?


Here's a picture of the "real" Avatar.


Here's a picture of the "Kaleb" Avatar. (Yes, we're the crazy parents who shaved our son's head for Halloween...)


Here is a picture of the "real" Robotboy (I know. I had never heard of him before either...)


Here is a picture of the "Zack" Robotboy.

And because I don't have a picture of the "real" princess ballerina riding a Pegasus Unicorn, I present to you Princess Leah riding a Pegasus Unicorn.



Ta-Da!