MONKEY LOVIN’ FUN
Why do monkeys have all the fun? I’m referring to that lovely saying ‘Spank the Monkey’ which is Greek for - I have a built in toy and I plan on playing with it – often. I have noticed that men seen to have a way with words when it comes to nicknames for masturbation. If you don’t believe me, I present to you another example: ‘Choke the Chicken’. Not only are these weird and crude statements, but I am left wondering why all the violent references to animals? Frankly, I’m afraid to find out how these twisted phrases got started. If we delve too deeply into their origins, we might find that bestiality was involved or some other abuse of some poor animal. I shiver at the perverse possibilities.
Another question that comes to mind is why are monkeys and chickens used to describe our self abuse? Why not use other animals in our catch phrases, such as; ‘Roughing up the Rhino’ or ‘Jostle the Baboon’ or even ‘Pummel the Panda’?
I’m also curious as to why there are no euphemisms for woman’s self pleasuring. You never hear the term ‘Bludgeoning the Beaver’, do you?
That’s because women aren’t gross.
I don’t think any woman would use a violent word to describe partying with oneself. If we felt a need to come up with a catch phrase for it, it would be something sensual or passionate, like, ‘Feathering the Swan’ or ‘Stroking the Gazelle’. I know that this is more of the animal terminology, but I’m just going with the theme at hand (so to speak).
If you think about it, it is no wonder that men have come up with vulgar terms for touching themselves, because they have been using offensive terms for going to the bathroom for years. Often a man will state, ‘I’m going to drain the main drain’ or ‘Ive gotta’ go drain the lizard’ or ‘Man, I have to take a leak.’ Why do they think we even want to know their elimination plans? Jeez, just say ‘excuse me’ and get up from the table and take care of business. You don’t have to explain what you are up to; we won’t think you left the table to carryout some James Bond-like bit of espionage.
At least we of the fairer sex very politely say, ‘Excuse me, I’m going to the ladies room’ or ‘Pardon me while I go powder my nose’. Although, in reality, the powdering of noses is a little antiquated, and is really a woman’s thinly disguised invitation for her friends to join her in the ladies room. While in the privacy of the bathroom she can then tell her friends that her date’s ‘lizard’ is really more like a salamander.
If a man feels that he must share with us his pee pee plans, why not say something more conducive for polite society, like ‘I must go straighten my cuff links’ or ‘Oh my! My cumber bun has become askew; please excuse me while I fix it’. Again, we know that you may just be wearing jeans and a t-shirt and do not in fact have on a cumber bun, but the point is, we could really care less if your bladder is full.
So in conclusion, while it is perfectly natural to pleasure oneself, and to have to urinate, why must anyone feel a need to announce it to the world in a crude fashion and more importantly, why involve innocent animals in our verbiage? So, I implore you, please stop spanking those monkeys and for God sake, isn’t it bad enough that we eat chickens, do we have to choke them, too?
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
I LOVE YOUR WIENER SCHNITZEL
I LOVE YOUR WIENER SCHNITZEL
My family moved to Phoenixville 9 years ago, right before the town’s revitalization took place. It used to be that whenever we said, “we live in Phoenixville” eyebrows were raised, lips sneered, and only a polite, “Oh, that’s nice,” would be issued.
Now, there are genuine smiles given, no gasping, and often, “How cool!” can be heard. I am convinced that my awesome coolness is what is responsible for the town’s general revival.
Since the town’s upsurge, we now have hip stores and trendy restaurants lining Bridge Street and many of the beautiful Victorian homes have been renovated. But even in its less trendy days, Phoenixville was always a family town, a town where people knew each other and a place where generation after generation lived. In other words, a great place to raise children. I think that Phoenixville is full of hard working people who have families and if there is any excuse to party, we are there!
Because of this fact, this town has a plethora of festivals; from the Celtic festival, F.A.M.E festival, Dogwood festival, the Firebird festival, and my favorite-the Blob festival.
All of these events are normally well advertised, often with banners strewn atop the streets, where no one could miss them. There was one event I came across, though, that I never was warned about. I’m still not sure what it was called. Perhaps the Old Dudes on Motorcycle festival would be fitting.
I was sitting at Artisans Café one day when I heard a thundering sound. When I looked out the window, it wasn’t an approaching storm I saw, but a large number of motorcycles parking on the street. White-haired, leather wearing dudes were dismounting the bikes and helping their ‘old ladies’ off the backs, then wandered around, checking out the other motorcycles.
These motorcycle enthusiasts, with their balding heads, protruding bellies, and blurry tattoos, were obviously having a good time. There was a lot of back slapping and admiring of each others ‘hogs’. I almost wanted to join in their festivities, but feared that with my lack of cool wheels and one measly, un-blurry tattoo, I wouldn’t be accepted.
Most of the festivals in Phoenixville, however, are for everyone and are very family friendly. Most recently, two new events joined the ranks of the long list; the Blues festival, and Oktoberfest.
The Blues festival had an amazing turn out for a first time event, possibly because the music was so amazing, but most likely because it was free. It took place in Reeves Park with the musicians playing on stage in the amphitheater. Most of the patrons of the Blues festival sat in the benches, but many others set up lawn chairs or blankets, adding to the party-like atmosphere. Many, including my 5 year old son, were up dancing to the music and having a fantastic time.
Although there were many families attending the Oktoberfest this month, I have a feeling that the ambiance changed as the night wore on. The reason for this can be found in the translation of the word Oktoberfest, which is German for ‘drink too much beer, eat too much bratwurst, and then barf on your lederhosen’.
A few blocks of Bridge Street were closed off for everyone’s safe beer drinking enjoyment. I guess they figured with all that bratwurst and beer consumption, there was bound to be some stumbling into the street anyways, so why not keep everyone safe.
There were also an excess of men wearing lederhosen who were there to play German music. Even though polkas and traditional German music aren’t on my I Pod play list, I do recognize the musical ability it takes to play a really good tuba solo.
Seeing all those men in lederhosen invariably makes me compare it to the Celtic festival which is resplendent with kilt wearing dudes. The 1st reason I go to the Celtic festival is for the Irish music and the 2nd reason is for the kilts.
Okay, so the 1st reason is for the kilts.
But lieder hosen, well, let’s just say that even the Rock would look like a sissy sporting that getup- and believe me, most of the gents at Phoenixville’s Oktoberfest who wore girly shoes, knee socks, shorts with suspenders, and goofy hats- did not look like the Rock.
I don’t mean to cast aspersions on German culture at all- I LOVE wiener schnitzel- I’m commenting solely about the fashion faux pas of grown men wearing brightly colored shorts with suspenders.
I know what you’re thinking; kilts are basically men wearing skirts; kind of girly, right? Not when they are sporting a dagger stuck in their sock.
Maybe they should add a manlier element to the lederhosen ensemble. How about a weapon tucked into the suspenders, or maybe a Chinese fighting star hidden behind the feather in their hats?
All I know is that when we saw a lederhosen clad senior gentleman walk towards us at the festival, my daughter was so frightened that she hid behind me. I’m hoping that sight is burned into her retinas and will stave off puberty for a few more years.
My family moved to Phoenixville 9 years ago, right before the town’s revitalization took place. It used to be that whenever we said, “we live in Phoenixville” eyebrows were raised, lips sneered, and only a polite, “Oh, that’s nice,” would be issued.
Now, there are genuine smiles given, no gasping, and often, “How cool!” can be heard. I am convinced that my awesome coolness is what is responsible for the town’s general revival.
Since the town’s upsurge, we now have hip stores and trendy restaurants lining Bridge Street and many of the beautiful Victorian homes have been renovated. But even in its less trendy days, Phoenixville was always a family town, a town where people knew each other and a place where generation after generation lived. In other words, a great place to raise children. I think that Phoenixville is full of hard working people who have families and if there is any excuse to party, we are there!
Because of this fact, this town has a plethora of festivals; from the Celtic festival, F.A.M.E festival, Dogwood festival, the Firebird festival, and my favorite-the Blob festival.
All of these events are normally well advertised, often with banners strewn atop the streets, where no one could miss them. There was one event I came across, though, that I never was warned about. I’m still not sure what it was called. Perhaps the Old Dudes on Motorcycle festival would be fitting.
I was sitting at Artisans Café one day when I heard a thundering sound. When I looked out the window, it wasn’t an approaching storm I saw, but a large number of motorcycles parking on the street. White-haired, leather wearing dudes were dismounting the bikes and helping their ‘old ladies’ off the backs, then wandered around, checking out the other motorcycles.
These motorcycle enthusiasts, with their balding heads, protruding bellies, and blurry tattoos, were obviously having a good time. There was a lot of back slapping and admiring of each others ‘hogs’. I almost wanted to join in their festivities, but feared that with my lack of cool wheels and one measly, un-blurry tattoo, I wouldn’t be accepted.
Most of the festivals in Phoenixville, however, are for everyone and are very family friendly. Most recently, two new events joined the ranks of the long list; the Blues festival, and Oktoberfest.
The Blues festival had an amazing turn out for a first time event, possibly because the music was so amazing, but most likely because it was free. It took place in Reeves Park with the musicians playing on stage in the amphitheater. Most of the patrons of the Blues festival sat in the benches, but many others set up lawn chairs or blankets, adding to the party-like atmosphere. Many, including my 5 year old son, were up dancing to the music and having a fantastic time.
Although there were many families attending the Oktoberfest this month, I have a feeling that the ambiance changed as the night wore on. The reason for this can be found in the translation of the word Oktoberfest, which is German for ‘drink too much beer, eat too much bratwurst, and then barf on your lederhosen’.
A few blocks of Bridge Street were closed off for everyone’s safe beer drinking enjoyment. I guess they figured with all that bratwurst and beer consumption, there was bound to be some stumbling into the street anyways, so why not keep everyone safe.
There were also an excess of men wearing lederhosen who were there to play German music. Even though polkas and traditional German music aren’t on my I Pod play list, I do recognize the musical ability it takes to play a really good tuba solo.
Seeing all those men in lederhosen invariably makes me compare it to the Celtic festival which is resplendent with kilt wearing dudes. The 1st reason I go to the Celtic festival is for the Irish music and the 2nd reason is for the kilts.
Okay, so the 1st reason is for the kilts.
But lieder hosen, well, let’s just say that even the Rock would look like a sissy sporting that getup- and believe me, most of the gents at Phoenixville’s Oktoberfest who wore girly shoes, knee socks, shorts with suspenders, and goofy hats- did not look like the Rock.
I don’t mean to cast aspersions on German culture at all- I LOVE wiener schnitzel- I’m commenting solely about the fashion faux pas of grown men wearing brightly colored shorts with suspenders.
I know what you’re thinking; kilts are basically men wearing skirts; kind of girly, right? Not when they are sporting a dagger stuck in their sock.
Maybe they should add a manlier element to the lederhosen ensemble. How about a weapon tucked into the suspenders, or maybe a Chinese fighting star hidden behind the feather in their hats?
All I know is that when we saw a lederhosen clad senior gentleman walk towards us at the festival, my daughter was so frightened that she hid behind me. I’m hoping that sight is burned into her retinas and will stave off puberty for a few more years.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
ELEPHANTS NEVER FORGET
ELEPHANTS NEVER FORGET
My local YMCA often plays host to many special health related events. They are committed to promoting the wellbeing of all of those in the community and accomplish this in a way that is fun for the whole family.
When a holiday is approaching, the Y often will decorate to create a festive mood. At Christmas time, they’ll put an inflatable snowman or Santa on the roof. In the spring, it will be replaced by the Easter Bunny who greets all those who enter the Y. I think they even put an enormous ghost on the roof for Halloween.
Recently, they held an event just for senior citizens, complete with vendors who provided many ways for the elderly to remain healthy. They advertised this occasion in the most obvious of ways- by putting a giant inflatable elephant on their roof with a sign that read ‘Senior Health Day’ emblazoned across it’s side.
When I first saw this 15 foot tall elephant, I stood for a moment and reread the sign, sure that I had mistaken it for something else. Was the Y hosting a circus? Were they raising money to bring the elephants back to the Philadelphia zoo?
No. I read it right the first time. I also noticed as I scrutinized the giant beast, that he had seen better days. This was not a cute cartoon-like character with floppy ears that helped him fly. This behemoth was missing an eye, looked like he could use a bath, and one of his tusk had gone a bit wonky. He looked a bit malevolent as well, squinting down at me with his one eye.
Is this a form of ageism, I wondered? If I were a person of advanced years, I would be a tad insulted, miffed, and down right cranky if someone thought a moldy elephant was a fair representation of my age class.
I looked around, expecting to see a mob of angry seniors picketing out front, waving their canes and signs that would read, GREY IS GREAT! and SAY THAT TO MY CANE, YOU WIPPERSNAPPER!!
What message were they trying to send? - Hey seniors, have you really let yourself go? Have you gained a few pounds since retiring and now look like an elephant? Come work out at the Y!
I certainly hope that they are not implying this: Here’s an elephant! He’s grey just like your hair-come exercise!
Or the most offensive of all implications: If your skin is as wrinkled and baggy as a pachyderm’s, try out our steam room, maybe it will shrink back to normal!
To be honest though, I’m not sure what they could have put up on the roof to represent Senior Health Day. A giant inflatable Jack Lalanne seems apropos, yet a little frightening. It could also be somewhat dangerous since the Y is so close to a busy road. I can imagine cars swerving here and there, plowing into trees, while the drivers screamed, “AHHHH, Jack Lalanne is HUGE!” To be honest, even at a normal size, the beefed up 90 year old scares me.
Any way you look at it, it is down right rude and makes no sense to advertise Senior Health Day on the side of an elephant.
But, maybe I’m being too negative. Perhaps the message they wanted to convey is complimentary in nature, something like this: Hey, elephants have great memories amd just like you old folks, they never forget. Sure, you told me the same story 5 times today, but you can still recall what dress you wore when Norman Schwartz took you to the prom in 1939!
Don’t get me wrong, I think the YMCA is on the right track with encouraging the elder community to stay fit, but they need to find a less discourteous and confusing way to promote senior health.
In fact, I love that our Y branch has so many seniors working out. They all seem to be enjoying themselves and look like they know what they are doing; with the exception of that elderly man I noticed who mistook the bicep machine for a free blood pressure screener. In truth, seeing all those seniors inspires me to want to exercise when I am old and grey. That is, if my children haven’t sucked out all of my life force energy by then.
In the meantime, I’m afraid that the colossal elephant may have scared away some of the more mature patrons at the Y. But I guess it could be worse; do you remember that giant Mickey Rooney head they used to advertise the Tabas hotel? It sat on Lancaster Avenue, scaring the passing motorists. What if that was on the YMCA roof?
Now that, my friends would be offensive.
Copy write 2010 CWaldman
My local YMCA often plays host to many special health related events. They are committed to promoting the wellbeing of all of those in the community and accomplish this in a way that is fun for the whole family.
When a holiday is approaching, the Y often will decorate to create a festive mood. At Christmas time, they’ll put an inflatable snowman or Santa on the roof. In the spring, it will be replaced by the Easter Bunny who greets all those who enter the Y. I think they even put an enormous ghost on the roof for Halloween.
Recently, they held an event just for senior citizens, complete with vendors who provided many ways for the elderly to remain healthy. They advertised this occasion in the most obvious of ways- by putting a giant inflatable elephant on their roof with a sign that read ‘Senior Health Day’ emblazoned across it’s side.
When I first saw this 15 foot tall elephant, I stood for a moment and reread the sign, sure that I had mistaken it for something else. Was the Y hosting a circus? Were they raising money to bring the elephants back to the Philadelphia zoo?
No. I read it right the first time. I also noticed as I scrutinized the giant beast, that he had seen better days. This was not a cute cartoon-like character with floppy ears that helped him fly. This behemoth was missing an eye, looked like he could use a bath, and one of his tusk had gone a bit wonky. He looked a bit malevolent as well, squinting down at me with his one eye.
Is this a form of ageism, I wondered? If I were a person of advanced years, I would be a tad insulted, miffed, and down right cranky if someone thought a moldy elephant was a fair representation of my age class.
I looked around, expecting to see a mob of angry seniors picketing out front, waving their canes and signs that would read, GREY IS GREAT! and SAY THAT TO MY CANE, YOU WIPPERSNAPPER!!
What message were they trying to send? - Hey seniors, have you really let yourself go? Have you gained a few pounds since retiring and now look like an elephant? Come work out at the Y!
I certainly hope that they are not implying this: Here’s an elephant! He’s grey just like your hair-come exercise!
Or the most offensive of all implications: If your skin is as wrinkled and baggy as a pachyderm’s, try out our steam room, maybe it will shrink back to normal!
To be honest though, I’m not sure what they could have put up on the roof to represent Senior Health Day. A giant inflatable Jack Lalanne seems apropos, yet a little frightening. It could also be somewhat dangerous since the Y is so close to a busy road. I can imagine cars swerving here and there, plowing into trees, while the drivers screamed, “AHHHH, Jack Lalanne is HUGE!” To be honest, even at a normal size, the beefed up 90 year old scares me.
Any way you look at it, it is down right rude and makes no sense to advertise Senior Health Day on the side of an elephant.
But, maybe I’m being too negative. Perhaps the message they wanted to convey is complimentary in nature, something like this: Hey, elephants have great memories amd just like you old folks, they never forget. Sure, you told me the same story 5 times today, but you can still recall what dress you wore when Norman Schwartz took you to the prom in 1939!
Don’t get me wrong, I think the YMCA is on the right track with encouraging the elder community to stay fit, but they need to find a less discourteous and confusing way to promote senior health.
In fact, I love that our Y branch has so many seniors working out. They all seem to be enjoying themselves and look like they know what they are doing; with the exception of that elderly man I noticed who mistook the bicep machine for a free blood pressure screener. In truth, seeing all those seniors inspires me to want to exercise when I am old and grey. That is, if my children haven’t sucked out all of my life force energy by then.
In the meantime, I’m afraid that the colossal elephant may have scared away some of the more mature patrons at the Y. But I guess it could be worse; do you remember that giant Mickey Rooney head they used to advertise the Tabas hotel? It sat on Lancaster Avenue, scaring the passing motorists. What if that was on the YMCA roof?
Now that, my friends would be offensive.
Copy write 2010 CWaldman
Monday, August 16, 2010
Anthropomorphism
Anthropomorphism: the impulse to give human traits to animals, or in other words, why we think it’s funny to see a chimp in a 3 piece suit, smoking a cigar while roller skating.
As a sophisticated techno-savvy society, we all hate to admit that we are dumb enough to believe that animals think like we do. I guess it’s our limited intelligence or just plain human nature to want to humanize animals. This same impulse is responsible for why some parents want to turn their innocent little girls into miniature Tammy Fay Bakers and parade them around a children’s beauty pageant.
It doesn’t help matters that some animals seem to model a few of our bad behaviors, making it even more tempting to point our finger and say, “Look! We aren’t the only jerks on the planet!” This and our subsequent anthropomorphizing is all an attempt to not look as greedy, selfish, and self-destructive as we really are. “Hey that dog drools in his sleep and he licks his butt…we’re not so bad after all!”
Some animals are better examples of crappy human behavior than others. The first one that comes to mind is the opossum. I have to say that I feel kind of sorry for the opossum because they are so...well, so…damn ugly! I came across one recently, early in the morning, as he was running across the road. It was more like stumbling than running with an odd stiff gait and hair sticking up all over the place, all while dragging his naked tail behind him. He reminded me of someone who had been on a drinking binge, fell asleep in the gutter, only to then jump up and rush home before the Mrs. found out.
The poor opossum has that ghastly white face, looking like the walking dead even when he’s not playing dead. This brings me to the opossum’s pathetic excuse for a defense mechanism – playing dead. I mean, he’s not even putting any effort into, is he? Why doesn’t he run away fast like a rabbit or at least climb a tree or something? I am starting to wonder if maybe the opossum suffers from clinical depression. Wouldn’t you be sad if you were the only marsupial in North America? Add to it that no one knows how to pronounce your name, and of course the fore mentioned drinking problem. And let’s face it; it’s hard to get busy with the Mrs. when she’s always lugging around the little ones in her pouch. It’s enough to make any one want to take a few dozen Prozac.
It could be that the opossum suffers from and inferiority complex because he is constantly being compared to the raccoon. When a raccoon knocks over a garbage can, he gets shooed away and called a rascal. If you’re an opossum, people say, “EWWW!” and throw bricks at your head and make gagging noises when they see your tail.
The raccoon, on the other hand, is the Dennis the Menace of the animal world with its mischievous personality, dexterous black hands that can open anything, and that endearing oh-so-bushy striped tail. Even when we know he’s being bad, we still think he’s just so darn cute. A raccoon also reminds me of a certain kind of man. You know the type; he’s an adorable man\child who is excused of so many of his misdeeds because of his boyish good looks and charm.
But don’t be fooled. You should always be suspicious of any animal that wears a mask. Whether God felt a need to hide the raccoon’s identity or it was from natural selection, either scenario does not speak highly of the raccoon’s character.
Like the raccoon, the chipmunk is one precocious little varmint. He is nature’s child with ADHD, always flitting here and there and then loosing focus and scurrying off into another direction- all at maximum speed. But in all fairness, we should not expect sedate behavior from an animal that has racing stripes.
Speaking of sedate behavior, the bear takes being laid back a little too far; in fact he shows a remarkable resemblance to some of my husband’s bachelor friends. First there’s all that scratching and a general slovenly appearance with burs sticking to his fur, unkempt toenails, and berry stains down his front. A bear is a champion over sleeper, and a bit overweight, maybe not from beer, but honey does contain a lot of calories. There is also all that grumbling and groaning, and grunting that bears do, eerily similar to the noises that come from a human male whenever a football player makes a fumble.
One of my favorite creatures is the mocking bird, but I have to say that it reminds me of someone’s annoying little brother who repeats everything you say.
Everything you say.
Stop copying me!
Stop copying me!
Mooom, Kevin won’t stop copying meee!
Mooom, Kevin won’t stop copying meee!
Well, you get the idea, except that the mocking bird does his replication in beautiful song form-so unlike an irritating little brother.
I have come to the conclusion that the real reason behind our anthropomorphizing is that it’s easier for our brains to assign human traits to our animal friends than to actually learn what their chirps and growls mean. I do think it is juvenile and maybe even disrespectful to the entire animal kingdom to assume that they behave like us or even to think about dressing up any creature in clothing. But, I have to admit (I swear it was my kids and that I had nothing to so with it) that our kitten is the exact size of an American Girl doll and looks stunning in Kit Kiterage’s dress and hat (although she won’t hold the tiny handbag and she always kicks off the shoes!!!)
Copy write 2010 cwaldman
As a sophisticated techno-savvy society, we all hate to admit that we are dumb enough to believe that animals think like we do. I guess it’s our limited intelligence or just plain human nature to want to humanize animals. This same impulse is responsible for why some parents want to turn their innocent little girls into miniature Tammy Fay Bakers and parade them around a children’s beauty pageant.
It doesn’t help matters that some animals seem to model a few of our bad behaviors, making it even more tempting to point our finger and say, “Look! We aren’t the only jerks on the planet!” This and our subsequent anthropomorphizing is all an attempt to not look as greedy, selfish, and self-destructive as we really are. “Hey that dog drools in his sleep and he licks his butt…we’re not so bad after all!”
Some animals are better examples of crappy human behavior than others. The first one that comes to mind is the opossum. I have to say that I feel kind of sorry for the opossum because they are so...well, so…damn ugly! I came across one recently, early in the morning, as he was running across the road. It was more like stumbling than running with an odd stiff gait and hair sticking up all over the place, all while dragging his naked tail behind him. He reminded me of someone who had been on a drinking binge, fell asleep in the gutter, only to then jump up and rush home before the Mrs. found out.
The poor opossum has that ghastly white face, looking like the walking dead even when he’s not playing dead. This brings me to the opossum’s pathetic excuse for a defense mechanism – playing dead. I mean, he’s not even putting any effort into, is he? Why doesn’t he run away fast like a rabbit or at least climb a tree or something? I am starting to wonder if maybe the opossum suffers from clinical depression. Wouldn’t you be sad if you were the only marsupial in North America? Add to it that no one knows how to pronounce your name, and of course the fore mentioned drinking problem. And let’s face it; it’s hard to get busy with the Mrs. when she’s always lugging around the little ones in her pouch. It’s enough to make any one want to take a few dozen Prozac.
It could be that the opossum suffers from and inferiority complex because he is constantly being compared to the raccoon. When a raccoon knocks over a garbage can, he gets shooed away and called a rascal. If you’re an opossum, people say, “EWWW!” and throw bricks at your head and make gagging noises when they see your tail.
The raccoon, on the other hand, is the Dennis the Menace of the animal world with its mischievous personality, dexterous black hands that can open anything, and that endearing oh-so-bushy striped tail. Even when we know he’s being bad, we still think he’s just so darn cute. A raccoon also reminds me of a certain kind of man. You know the type; he’s an adorable man\child who is excused of so many of his misdeeds because of his boyish good looks and charm.
But don’t be fooled. You should always be suspicious of any animal that wears a mask. Whether God felt a need to hide the raccoon’s identity or it was from natural selection, either scenario does not speak highly of the raccoon’s character.
Like the raccoon, the chipmunk is one precocious little varmint. He is nature’s child with ADHD, always flitting here and there and then loosing focus and scurrying off into another direction- all at maximum speed. But in all fairness, we should not expect sedate behavior from an animal that has racing stripes.
Speaking of sedate behavior, the bear takes being laid back a little too far; in fact he shows a remarkable resemblance to some of my husband’s bachelor friends. First there’s all that scratching and a general slovenly appearance with burs sticking to his fur, unkempt toenails, and berry stains down his front. A bear is a champion over sleeper, and a bit overweight, maybe not from beer, but honey does contain a lot of calories. There is also all that grumbling and groaning, and grunting that bears do, eerily similar to the noises that come from a human male whenever a football player makes a fumble.
One of my favorite creatures is the mocking bird, but I have to say that it reminds me of someone’s annoying little brother who repeats everything you say.
Everything you say.
Stop copying me!
Stop copying me!
Mooom, Kevin won’t stop copying meee!
Mooom, Kevin won’t stop copying meee!
Well, you get the idea, except that the mocking bird does his replication in beautiful song form-so unlike an irritating little brother.
I have come to the conclusion that the real reason behind our anthropomorphizing is that it’s easier for our brains to assign human traits to our animal friends than to actually learn what their chirps and growls mean. I do think it is juvenile and maybe even disrespectful to the entire animal kingdom to assume that they behave like us or even to think about dressing up any creature in clothing. But, I have to admit (I swear it was my kids and that I had nothing to so with it) that our kitten is the exact size of an American Girl doll and looks stunning in Kit Kiterage’s dress and hat (although she won’t hold the tiny handbag and she always kicks off the shoes!!!)
Copy write 2010 cwaldman
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Facebook Freak Out
FACEBOOK FREAK OUT
Am I the only one who gets a little creeped out by some of the ads of Facebook? It’s not really the ads themselves that are the problem, it’s the fact that they are tailored so specifically to what we chat about on FB that’s icky.
It seems that one day you can be blathering on about a subject, say, what a boring weekend you had because your husband was watching college basketball for 72 consecutive hours, and the next thing you know, an ad for on-line college courses mysteriously appears on your home page. These ads use a perverse form of profiling, created by using keywords from our private conversations. Okay, so maybe not so private, but only a few dozen of our closest friends should be privy to our ramblings.
I can hear some of my more argumentative acquaintances now saying, “Well, what do you expect? How do you think that they are able to offer FB for free?” and “You shouldn’t put any thing out there that you don’t want heard.” And “Dear God, what are you going on about now?”
Honestly, I don’t mind seeing ads on the internet, because I can ignore them if I want to. I am aware that their existence is a small price to pay to get something for free, especially if that free item appeals to my nosy nature like FB does.
The thing that I don’t like is the Peeping Tom aspect of how they gather our private information for their advertisements. I feel so targeted and scrutinized, stared at and…naked!! My ravings are meant only for my friends to bear with, not for some creepy ad executive to get their greasy hands all over.
I try not to get too suspicious about the way in which my personal factoids are harvested. I suppose that keywords are picked up electronically and then fed off of, akin to how vultures devour the innards of some rank road kill. But sometimes I wonder if it’s really some geeky dude with pimples who wears pants that are too short and a shirt buttoned all the way up to his chin. I can picture him now, in his parent’s basement, drooling over my private postings, just waiting to find a nugget of useful gossip. His eyes light up when he sees I have written about having coffee with my friends. He rubs his tiny hands together and sends that juicy morsel of info to the Facebook Fuhrer.
ALERT! ALERT! Christine Waldman drinks coffee!! Instantly, the right hand column of my home page is filled with an ad for General Foods International Coffees.
Alright, so I maybe I am being a smidge paranoid, but I’m still worried. Right now, it may just be certain words that prompt what advertisements you will be subjected to, but that could change. How long will it be until some little dweeb and his dweeby pals will be making their own judgments about us, and basing their ads on them?
I can see it all now. “Hey Norman, get a load of this chicks profile picture! Man, what a cow! Let’s put a Jenny Craig ad on her page.” Or “Dude, is that girl talking about exercising again?!! It looks like she’d fall for a Bowflex ad.” Or “Frank, that guy has used Star Trek references 10 times this week. Let’s load up a Match.com ad, because he seriously needs a date.”
I’m suspicious that this could be happening already. I have had ads for Weight Watchers (clearly I didn’t suck my gut in enough on my profile picture), botox injections (I guess that photo didn’t hide my wrinkles after all), vacation packages (I must look so harried, that they think I need to get away), and ads asking if I use makeup (because I really need to?!), as well as hair removal spots, (do I resemble the pre-makeover Susan Boyle?).
I swear, that if I see an ad for a retirement community or Depends, I’m just going to curl up in a ball and never come out of my house again. My only link to the outside world will be FB….Hey wait a minute! It could all be a devious plan to do nothing but stay at home and cruise FB, and blindly purchase every item and service I see. Yes, I think that I do need to get a large number of botox injections, so many in fact, that I will no longer able to blink. And even though every minute of my day is used up raising 3 kids, I feel a sudden need to cram in a few college courses. Also, I now have a desire to be waxed until I look like a naked mole rat.
Because I have concerns over the nature of these advertisements, I thought that I might conduct a little experiment to see if I’m being unreasonable. I decided to post comments about my problems with Erectile Dysfunction. I want to see how many times I need to write the phrase, “My penis is faulty” before an ad for Viagra pops up (so to speak).
Now as most of you know, being a woman, I do not possess that particular piece of equipment (although I do have a piece of equipment for sale on Craigslist; a 20” Hedge trimmer, if you are interested). I am not a man with wee wee problems, and have no use for a wee wee enhancer. I am hoping that this will show how closely the FB people pay attention to who is saying what. Is it truly just keywords that prompt the ads? Or are there a gaggle of geeks who are outsourced by the FB Fuhrer to spy on us and criticize our chubby thighs? Or perhaps I have nothing better to do than make up crazy theories about things.
I guess if you read any of my other blogs that last option is the most likely scenario, but just in case I’m wrong, I must inform you that my penis is faulty.
Copy write 2010 c.waldman
Am I the only one who gets a little creeped out by some of the ads of Facebook? It’s not really the ads themselves that are the problem, it’s the fact that they are tailored so specifically to what we chat about on FB that’s icky.
It seems that one day you can be blathering on about a subject, say, what a boring weekend you had because your husband was watching college basketball for 72 consecutive hours, and the next thing you know, an ad for on-line college courses mysteriously appears on your home page. These ads use a perverse form of profiling, created by using keywords from our private conversations. Okay, so maybe not so private, but only a few dozen of our closest friends should be privy to our ramblings.
I can hear some of my more argumentative acquaintances now saying, “Well, what do you expect? How do you think that they are able to offer FB for free?” and “You shouldn’t put any thing out there that you don’t want heard.” And “Dear God, what are you going on about now?”
Honestly, I don’t mind seeing ads on the internet, because I can ignore them if I want to. I am aware that their existence is a small price to pay to get something for free, especially if that free item appeals to my nosy nature like FB does.
The thing that I don’t like is the Peeping Tom aspect of how they gather our private information for their advertisements. I feel so targeted and scrutinized, stared at and…naked!! My ravings are meant only for my friends to bear with, not for some creepy ad executive to get their greasy hands all over.
I try not to get too suspicious about the way in which my personal factoids are harvested. I suppose that keywords are picked up electronically and then fed off of, akin to how vultures devour the innards of some rank road kill. But sometimes I wonder if it’s really some geeky dude with pimples who wears pants that are too short and a shirt buttoned all the way up to his chin. I can picture him now, in his parent’s basement, drooling over my private postings, just waiting to find a nugget of useful gossip. His eyes light up when he sees I have written about having coffee with my friends. He rubs his tiny hands together and sends that juicy morsel of info to the Facebook Fuhrer.
ALERT! ALERT! Christine Waldman drinks coffee!! Instantly, the right hand column of my home page is filled with an ad for General Foods International Coffees.
Alright, so I maybe I am being a smidge paranoid, but I’m still worried. Right now, it may just be certain words that prompt what advertisements you will be subjected to, but that could change. How long will it be until some little dweeb and his dweeby pals will be making their own judgments about us, and basing their ads on them?
I can see it all now. “Hey Norman, get a load of this chicks profile picture! Man, what a cow! Let’s put a Jenny Craig ad on her page.” Or “Dude, is that girl talking about exercising again?!! It looks like she’d fall for a Bowflex ad.” Or “Frank, that guy has used Star Trek references 10 times this week. Let’s load up a Match.com ad, because he seriously needs a date.”
I’m suspicious that this could be happening already. I have had ads for Weight Watchers (clearly I didn’t suck my gut in enough on my profile picture), botox injections (I guess that photo didn’t hide my wrinkles after all), vacation packages (I must look so harried, that they think I need to get away), and ads asking if I use makeup (because I really need to?!), as well as hair removal spots, (do I resemble the pre-makeover Susan Boyle?).
I swear, that if I see an ad for a retirement community or Depends, I’m just going to curl up in a ball and never come out of my house again. My only link to the outside world will be FB….Hey wait a minute! It could all be a devious plan to do nothing but stay at home and cruise FB, and blindly purchase every item and service I see. Yes, I think that I do need to get a large number of botox injections, so many in fact, that I will no longer able to blink. And even though every minute of my day is used up raising 3 kids, I feel a sudden need to cram in a few college courses. Also, I now have a desire to be waxed until I look like a naked mole rat.
Because I have concerns over the nature of these advertisements, I thought that I might conduct a little experiment to see if I’m being unreasonable. I decided to post comments about my problems with Erectile Dysfunction. I want to see how many times I need to write the phrase, “My penis is faulty” before an ad for Viagra pops up (so to speak).
Now as most of you know, being a woman, I do not possess that particular piece of equipment (although I do have a piece of equipment for sale on Craigslist; a 20” Hedge trimmer, if you are interested). I am not a man with wee wee problems, and have no use for a wee wee enhancer. I am hoping that this will show how closely the FB people pay attention to who is saying what. Is it truly just keywords that prompt the ads? Or are there a gaggle of geeks who are outsourced by the FB Fuhrer to spy on us and criticize our chubby thighs? Or perhaps I have nothing better to do than make up crazy theories about things.
I guess if you read any of my other blogs that last option is the most likely scenario, but just in case I’m wrong, I must inform you that my penis is faulty.
Copy write 2010 c.waldman
Thursday, June 3, 2010
FAMILY MYTHS AND OTHER LIES
FAMILY MYTHS AND OTHER LIES
Every family has a number of stories, or mythologies of past events. These are the idiosyncrasies of our childhood or even recent events that our parents or siblings will greatly exaggerate and never let us forget. These stories are joyously dragged out as a verbal photo album and told over and over again. Of course, the optimal time for the most embarrassment is when a new boyfriend or girlfriend is being introduced to your family.
As humiliating as some of these stories can be, they are the building blocks of our childhood and a parent’s right to tell repeatedly. Even though we may tire of hearing these myths, we must stoically listen to them as penance for our childish misdeeds.
Some of these myths are more of an unfair branding because of a fleeting transgression or a one-time mistake. Sometimes even from the recent past, such as missing a family event or holiday. When the date comes around again, we are asked by a family member, “Will you be coming this year?” Of course the previous ten years that you suffered through...um, I mean happily attended the events are insignificant.
But current offenses aside, most of our mythology comes from our younger days and I’d like to share some of the funniest and most embarrassing from my family’s past.
All parents have a list of their children’s cute sayings, mispronunciations, or just plain confusion over the meaning of a word. For example, when we were little, my mom and dad would tell us to keep the basement door closed to prevent a draft. Forget about the fact that we could have fallen down the steps and that should have been the main reason for the door to stay closed. (Safety was not a major concern in the 60’s and it’s amazing that any of us survived intact with no bike helmets or car seats, and the fact that we all ate baby aspirin like Chiclets back then, which apparently was worse than feeding children strychnine.) Never-the-less, my oldest brother misunderstood and became terrified that a giraffe, not a draft, lived in the basement and we had to keep the door closed to keep it down there thus preventing it from eating our eyeballs. My parents think this is a charming story and have told it many times, while my brother still has a twitch whenever he sees anything with spots and has not stepped foot in a basement in 47 years.
My sister’s story or myth is a misunderstanding on a grander level, you may say. She came home from Catholic school one day and recited the story of the Immaculate Conception that she had learned from the nuns. According to her, an angel came to Mary and said, “You are going to be the mother of God.” And Mary said, “I wonder who the father is?” I can understand her befuddlement, to this day I’m still a little confused by it all.
My other brother was, according to my parents, an artistic soul, and therefore much harder to parent, because they “didn’t want to break his spirit”. This is parent speak for, “GOD this child is exhausting! Is it time for a glass of wine yet?” Like many little boys, my brother wanted our mother all to himself and did not like it when my dad would hug her. Being Italian, my dad was (and still is) very fond of hugging my mother and while he was doing just that, my brother stabbed him in the ass with a fork. He was reprimanded for his naughtiness and made to promise never, ever to stab dad in the butt with a fork again. His reply was, “How about a spoon?” Being an artistic soul, he probably drew a picture of stabbing dad in the rear, which they put up on the fridge and I’m sure still have in their archives somewhere.
Now, before you think me a bratty little sister, my myths are much, much worse and mortifying than those of my brothers and sister. Also the majority of the legends told in my family are about me, since being the youngest I was the most put upon and made fun of, but the most adorable. That’s how we youngest children survive, by being cute. Let’s face it, after 4 kids in 5 1\2 years, my parents were so damn tired, I’m lucky they remembered to feed me. (If you see any pictures of me as a chubby kid, you may recognize that this could be a slight exaggeration). Being the youngest, I had to find some way to get attention, but most of the stories told by my family are blown way out of proportion or complete fabrications.
The first myth I will tell you about has been embellished by my older and much less cute siblings. We were having dinner and someone asked me to pass the salt and I used it first before I passed it on, which apparently is right up there with mass murder. I know I did this only one time, but TO THIS DAY when dining with my parents and siblings, they ask me to pass the salt and just watch me to see what I’ll do. I mean how juvenile is that? I think that next time we eat together; you can bet that I’ll use that salt first, and then pass it right at their heads!
Well, they started it!
Now I will reveal my most embarrassing story. I have to tell you before hand that I was 2 years old when it happened, so please keep that in mind.
Apparently, when I was 2, my 4 year old brother and I were in our pjs and I was chasing him around and around the house and grabbing at his…well, his boy parts. I had recently noticed, being 2 years old and all that his parts were very different than mine and was kind of curious. It was either that or I thought he stole my silly putty, I can’t remember which.
My parents claim that this went on for a while until we disappeared into another room. I emerged a moment later screaming, with my brother now chasing me… with a toy dinosaur sticking out of the fly of his pjs.
I must state for the record that since that day, I have not been in the habit of grabbing at men’s ‘boy parts’, unless of course, they are married to me or have stolen my silly putty. However, I do still scream and run out of the room when ever I spot a plastic dinosaur.
Now that we have family of our own, my husband and I have already started collecting the funny stories about our 3 kids. We are now in the process of exaggerating and telling these myths over and over again.
I’ll start with a my oldest daughter’s version of a popular nursery rhyme, recited to us when she was 2 (Thank God it does not involve boy parts)
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And it was very expensive
When my youngest daughter was 4, she couldn’t pronounce the letter blend sp. Instead she would say the letter f, so sparkly became farkly.
“I’m not eating the finach because I’m wearing my fecial farkly shirt and it will get ruined if I fill finach on it!
She is 7 now and has long out grown her cute speech impediment. To her great annoyance though, we still take great joy in reminding her of it every few minutes.
Our son’s stories are too great to count and could fill volumes, but my favorite mispronunciation (which he still says) is piss a deer instead of disappear. I don’t even know where to start with that one, so why not make up your own joke and chuckle quietly to yourself.
It is a part of each family’s tradition to never let their children or siblings forget that they were once kids who said and did cute and embarrassing things. As opposed to our adult behavior which is just plain obnoxious and embarrassing.
So remember kiddies, we’re watching you, and every time you mess up or annoy your parents or siblings, someday we’ll be telling your new girlfriend how you stuck your head in the toilet when you were four.
Copy write 2010 C Waldman
Every family has a number of stories, or mythologies of past events. These are the idiosyncrasies of our childhood or even recent events that our parents or siblings will greatly exaggerate and never let us forget. These stories are joyously dragged out as a verbal photo album and told over and over again. Of course, the optimal time for the most embarrassment is when a new boyfriend or girlfriend is being introduced to your family.
As humiliating as some of these stories can be, they are the building blocks of our childhood and a parent’s right to tell repeatedly. Even though we may tire of hearing these myths, we must stoically listen to them as penance for our childish misdeeds.
Some of these myths are more of an unfair branding because of a fleeting transgression or a one-time mistake. Sometimes even from the recent past, such as missing a family event or holiday. When the date comes around again, we are asked by a family member, “Will you be coming this year?” Of course the previous ten years that you suffered through...um, I mean happily attended the events are insignificant.
But current offenses aside, most of our mythology comes from our younger days and I’d like to share some of the funniest and most embarrassing from my family’s past.
All parents have a list of their children’s cute sayings, mispronunciations, or just plain confusion over the meaning of a word. For example, when we were little, my mom and dad would tell us to keep the basement door closed to prevent a draft. Forget about the fact that we could have fallen down the steps and that should have been the main reason for the door to stay closed. (Safety was not a major concern in the 60’s and it’s amazing that any of us survived intact with no bike helmets or car seats, and the fact that we all ate baby aspirin like Chiclets back then, which apparently was worse than feeding children strychnine.) Never-the-less, my oldest brother misunderstood and became terrified that a giraffe, not a draft, lived in the basement and we had to keep the door closed to keep it down there thus preventing it from eating our eyeballs. My parents think this is a charming story and have told it many times, while my brother still has a twitch whenever he sees anything with spots and has not stepped foot in a basement in 47 years.
My sister’s story or myth is a misunderstanding on a grander level, you may say. She came home from Catholic school one day and recited the story of the Immaculate Conception that she had learned from the nuns. According to her, an angel came to Mary and said, “You are going to be the mother of God.” And Mary said, “I wonder who the father is?” I can understand her befuddlement, to this day I’m still a little confused by it all.
My other brother was, according to my parents, an artistic soul, and therefore much harder to parent, because they “didn’t want to break his spirit”. This is parent speak for, “GOD this child is exhausting! Is it time for a glass of wine yet?” Like many little boys, my brother wanted our mother all to himself and did not like it when my dad would hug her. Being Italian, my dad was (and still is) very fond of hugging my mother and while he was doing just that, my brother stabbed him in the ass with a fork. He was reprimanded for his naughtiness and made to promise never, ever to stab dad in the butt with a fork again. His reply was, “How about a spoon?” Being an artistic soul, he probably drew a picture of stabbing dad in the rear, which they put up on the fridge and I’m sure still have in their archives somewhere.
Now, before you think me a bratty little sister, my myths are much, much worse and mortifying than those of my brothers and sister. Also the majority of the legends told in my family are about me, since being the youngest I was the most put upon and made fun of, but the most adorable. That’s how we youngest children survive, by being cute. Let’s face it, after 4 kids in 5 1\2 years, my parents were so damn tired, I’m lucky they remembered to feed me. (If you see any pictures of me as a chubby kid, you may recognize that this could be a slight exaggeration). Being the youngest, I had to find some way to get attention, but most of the stories told by my family are blown way out of proportion or complete fabrications.
The first myth I will tell you about has been embellished by my older and much less cute siblings. We were having dinner and someone asked me to pass the salt and I used it first before I passed it on, which apparently is right up there with mass murder. I know I did this only one time, but TO THIS DAY when dining with my parents and siblings, they ask me to pass the salt and just watch me to see what I’ll do. I mean how juvenile is that? I think that next time we eat together; you can bet that I’ll use that salt first, and then pass it right at their heads!
Well, they started it!
Now I will reveal my most embarrassing story. I have to tell you before hand that I was 2 years old when it happened, so please keep that in mind.
Apparently, when I was 2, my 4 year old brother and I were in our pjs and I was chasing him around and around the house and grabbing at his…well, his boy parts. I had recently noticed, being 2 years old and all that his parts were very different than mine and was kind of curious. It was either that or I thought he stole my silly putty, I can’t remember which.
My parents claim that this went on for a while until we disappeared into another room. I emerged a moment later screaming, with my brother now chasing me… with a toy dinosaur sticking out of the fly of his pjs.
I must state for the record that since that day, I have not been in the habit of grabbing at men’s ‘boy parts’, unless of course, they are married to me or have stolen my silly putty. However, I do still scream and run out of the room when ever I spot a plastic dinosaur.
Now that we have family of our own, my husband and I have already started collecting the funny stories about our 3 kids. We are now in the process of exaggerating and telling these myths over and over again.
I’ll start with a my oldest daughter’s version of a popular nursery rhyme, recited to us when she was 2 (Thank God it does not involve boy parts)
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And it was very expensive
When my youngest daughter was 4, she couldn’t pronounce the letter blend sp. Instead she would say the letter f, so sparkly became farkly.
“I’m not eating the finach because I’m wearing my fecial farkly shirt and it will get ruined if I fill finach on it!
She is 7 now and has long out grown her cute speech impediment. To her great annoyance though, we still take great joy in reminding her of it every few minutes.
Our son’s stories are too great to count and could fill volumes, but my favorite mispronunciation (which he still says) is piss a deer instead of disappear. I don’t even know where to start with that one, so why not make up your own joke and chuckle quietly to yourself.
It is a part of each family’s tradition to never let their children or siblings forget that they were once kids who said and did cute and embarrassing things. As opposed to our adult behavior which is just plain obnoxious and embarrassing.
So remember kiddies, we’re watching you, and every time you mess up or annoy your parents or siblings, someday we’ll be telling your new girlfriend how you stuck your head in the toilet when you were four.
Copy write 2010 C Waldman
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Chris Cross
Chris Cross
Some of you may not know this about me, but I am well versed in the Crossing Guard arts. In fact, I have my own Crossing Guard name - Chris Cross.
“There’s an art to being a Crossing Guard?” you may be asking yourself. Oh yes my friends, there is.
First of all, not every one can make a fashion statement wearing a neon-green vest. Apparently, I know how to work it, because I have a few admirers. The first of my fans made himself known to me during my first week on the job. I was standing on the corner working (so to speak), when a scruffy looking guy in a rusty car slowed down. With a voice that sounded like he had gargled with rocks that morning, he said, “It’s about time they got a good lookin’ crossing guard in this town!”
“Um...thanks, but not a very nice thing to say about my fellow workers.” I replied. Clearly this man needed to get his eyes checked if he thinks I am the cream of the crop
This same gentleman has driven past other times, usually slowing down to give me the thumbs up, which is something that never fails to impress us ladies. I had to stop him once so I could cross some kids, and when I was done, he yelled out enthusiastically, “Good Job!” like I had just performed brain surgery or completed a really good dismount from a balance beam.
I have also noticed a few appreciative looks from borough workers driving by in their work trucks, who, like me, were sporting neon-green work clothes. There is the possibility that my ego is getting the better of me, though. They could just be snickering at the fool on the corner who is also forced to wear a fluorescent uniform.
Of course, like all of the other admirers in my life, none of these men were driving a Lexus and not one would ever be mistaken for George Clooney
You probably are wondering about now how one enters into the field of Crossing Guard technologies. It’s not easy, you know. There is a rigorous training program which consisted of the supervisor showing you the ropes.
“Oh, so you stand in the middle of the street and hold up the sign? Huh.”
“Yes,” says the CG Supervisor, “Make sure you hold the sign up so the cars can see it, oh…and so they don’t run you over.”
GULP
“And then you wait for the kids to cross before you put you sign down,” she ads. “Ohhhh,” I mean, what else is there to say, it’s pretty obvious that’s the whole purpose of the job.
I don’t mean to negate the importance of getting children safely across the street, but it really isn’t that complicated. You do need to keep a sharp eye out for the darters, though. I stopped a toddler once who was about to run out into the traffic. I saw him running towards the street and instinctively stuck my stop sign out which he promptly bounced off of. I probably saved him from being flattened, and it made a really cool sound when he hit my stop sign, too.
My favorite part of my job, besides the ultra-hip vest, is getting paid to yell at kids. As a mother of three, I have a lot of experience in this field and am quite proficient at it. When kids aren’t crossing the street properly, I get to yell at them to stay in the cross walk. They always listen to me, not only because of the awesome vest, but because I have the Mommy voice.
One day a kid started running out into the street at an angle and ten feet from the cross walk. A police car just happened to be the vehicle that he ran in front of. I made the child come back to where he started and walk in the cross walk. The Officer rolled down his window and said, “Nicely done.” It’s great to be acknowledged for a job well done by a fellow officer. Well… I technically do work for the police department, so that makes me an honorary policewoman, right? Well, maybe not, but I think I should at least get a badge…or a gun. Yeah, a gun would be awesome because I could shoot out the tires of all those idiots that go over 15 mph in the school zone.
Another wonderful thing about being a CG is that everyone waves at me. People I have never seen before in my life wave and I still have no idea why. Maybe I look lonely standing there by myself on the corner, I don’t know, but I kind of like it because it makes me feel very popular, and all that waving makes me feel like a beauty queen.
There is also some unwritten rule that CGs and school bus drivers must wave at each other. I think that it is a sort of solidarity between two professions who deal with crazed children. Or perhaps a secret signal meaning, these kids are driving me nuts, so meet me at the bar after work!
One other perk to my job is that I get a lot of Holiday and end-of-the-year gifts, even from kids I have never helped cross. I have received many pretty packages filled with chocolate and coffee, as well as some gift certificates for Dunkin Donuts. Obviously, those parents see the merit in me being very alert while crossing their darlings across the busy streets.
There are a few drawbacks to being a CG, though. The worst is having to stand out in the rain and the cold. After a while, you do get used to frostbite. What you don’t get used to is the fact that people feel a need to tell you that you are standing out in the rain, as if the water filling your boots isn’t enough of a reminder.
All in all, I do like being a crossing guard. I enjoy the cute kids and helping to make sure that they get home safe, and I love that I get to wear neon on a daily basis. And I dream that some day they might give me a badge and a gun.
Well, they probably won’t give me a gun, but the badge would be nice.
Some of you may not know this about me, but I am well versed in the Crossing Guard arts. In fact, I have my own Crossing Guard name - Chris Cross.
“There’s an art to being a Crossing Guard?” you may be asking yourself. Oh yes my friends, there is.
First of all, not every one can make a fashion statement wearing a neon-green vest. Apparently, I know how to work it, because I have a few admirers. The first of my fans made himself known to me during my first week on the job. I was standing on the corner working (so to speak), when a scruffy looking guy in a rusty car slowed down. With a voice that sounded like he had gargled with rocks that morning, he said, “It’s about time they got a good lookin’ crossing guard in this town!”
“Um...thanks, but not a very nice thing to say about my fellow workers.” I replied. Clearly this man needed to get his eyes checked if he thinks I am the cream of the crop
This same gentleman has driven past other times, usually slowing down to give me the thumbs up, which is something that never fails to impress us ladies. I had to stop him once so I could cross some kids, and when I was done, he yelled out enthusiastically, “Good Job!” like I had just performed brain surgery or completed a really good dismount from a balance beam.
I have also noticed a few appreciative looks from borough workers driving by in their work trucks, who, like me, were sporting neon-green work clothes. There is the possibility that my ego is getting the better of me, though. They could just be snickering at the fool on the corner who is also forced to wear a fluorescent uniform.
Of course, like all of the other admirers in my life, none of these men were driving a Lexus and not one would ever be mistaken for George Clooney
You probably are wondering about now how one enters into the field of Crossing Guard technologies. It’s not easy, you know. There is a rigorous training program which consisted of the supervisor showing you the ropes.
“Oh, so you stand in the middle of the street and hold up the sign? Huh.”
“Yes,” says the CG Supervisor, “Make sure you hold the sign up so the cars can see it, oh…and so they don’t run you over.”
GULP
“And then you wait for the kids to cross before you put you sign down,” she ads. “Ohhhh,” I mean, what else is there to say, it’s pretty obvious that’s the whole purpose of the job.
I don’t mean to negate the importance of getting children safely across the street, but it really isn’t that complicated. You do need to keep a sharp eye out for the darters, though. I stopped a toddler once who was about to run out into the traffic. I saw him running towards the street and instinctively stuck my stop sign out which he promptly bounced off of. I probably saved him from being flattened, and it made a really cool sound when he hit my stop sign, too.
My favorite part of my job, besides the ultra-hip vest, is getting paid to yell at kids. As a mother of three, I have a lot of experience in this field and am quite proficient at it. When kids aren’t crossing the street properly, I get to yell at them to stay in the cross walk. They always listen to me, not only because of the awesome vest, but because I have the Mommy voice.
One day a kid started running out into the street at an angle and ten feet from the cross walk. A police car just happened to be the vehicle that he ran in front of. I made the child come back to where he started and walk in the cross walk. The Officer rolled down his window and said, “Nicely done.” It’s great to be acknowledged for a job well done by a fellow officer. Well… I technically do work for the police department, so that makes me an honorary policewoman, right? Well, maybe not, but I think I should at least get a badge…or a gun. Yeah, a gun would be awesome because I could shoot out the tires of all those idiots that go over 15 mph in the school zone.
Another wonderful thing about being a CG is that everyone waves at me. People I have never seen before in my life wave and I still have no idea why. Maybe I look lonely standing there by myself on the corner, I don’t know, but I kind of like it because it makes me feel very popular, and all that waving makes me feel like a beauty queen.
There is also some unwritten rule that CGs and school bus drivers must wave at each other. I think that it is a sort of solidarity between two professions who deal with crazed children. Or perhaps a secret signal meaning, these kids are driving me nuts, so meet me at the bar after work!
One other perk to my job is that I get a lot of Holiday and end-of-the-year gifts, even from kids I have never helped cross. I have received many pretty packages filled with chocolate and coffee, as well as some gift certificates for Dunkin Donuts. Obviously, those parents see the merit in me being very alert while crossing their darlings across the busy streets.
There are a few drawbacks to being a CG, though. The worst is having to stand out in the rain and the cold. After a while, you do get used to frostbite. What you don’t get used to is the fact that people feel a need to tell you that you are standing out in the rain, as if the water filling your boots isn’t enough of a reminder.
All in all, I do like being a crossing guard. I enjoy the cute kids and helping to make sure that they get home safe, and I love that I get to wear neon on a daily basis. And I dream that some day they might give me a badge and a gun.
Well, they probably won’t give me a gun, but the badge would be nice.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
SUPER MOM
Super Mom
It’s been 10 years since I’ve become a mommy and I have noticed a distinct decrease in my mental clarity. I do draw some comfort in knowing that I am not the only mom afflicted with this problem. My memory is shot, I can’t concentrate, and I have trouble helping my daughter with her 4th grade math. Well, to be fair, even back when I was in 4th grade, math and I were not on speaking terms.
When the Obstetrician delivered my first baby, I swear she reached in and plucked out part of my brain. Being a mother herself, she knew that I wouldn’t be using it.
Maybe it is really a blessing in disguise, otherwise I might be cognizant of how mundane my life has become. With out all that pesky brain power, I can now happily go about my day, changing diapers, picking up toys, and heating up chicken nuggets.
But do not fret mommies, all is not lost. We have been compensated for the lack of brain cells by being granted superpowers.
The most powerful of all our gifts is a super multi-tasking ability. Who else on this planet is able to juggle helping the kids with homework while making dinner, answering the phone, and changing diapers? I remember one evening in particular when I was helping my 9 year old with fractions(AHHHH!!), making dinner, feeding the dog, all while answering a potential client’s questions about the health benefits of massage therapy. From upstairs, my 4 year old yelled, “Mommy, I POOOOPED! Can you come wipe my bum?”
Needless to say, that person did not book a massage appointment.
Moms are also given super sonic hearing. We can hear a toddler opening the cookie jar from 4 rooms away. We can tell the difference between the cry of a child who is looking for attention and an outraged yell from another child because his sister threw his Power Ranger into the toilet. Like the Bionic Woman, I have that cool’ boopity boopity’ sound effect when using my extra sensory hearing (think Jamie Summers tucking her hair behind her ear, as she listens intently for the sound of Steve Austin unzipping his pants).
Fortunately, we have the ability to turn off our hearing powers at will and can tune out chaotic noise. For example, the dog can be barking and the TV is blaring, one child is singing loudly, while the other two are screaming at each other. I can ignore all this racket and continue to read my book. However, when I look over at my husband, he has his hands clamped over his ears and his eyes are rolled back into his head.
Sorry Dads, the only super power, and I use that term loosely, that a father possesses, is learning how to change a diaper. Of course, it takes a dad about 10 minutes to a mom’s 10 seconds, and he usually wanders off in search of the diaper cream he has forgotten. In that time, your baby boy has peed all over your curtains, which is not his fault because that’s what happens to boys when cold air hits their wee wees. It’s okay, because by the time they are adults, 8 out of 10 men outgrow that particular problem.
The most impressive of all our super powers though, is our built-in tracking device. We can locate any lost object in our homes.
“Mom, have you seen my sneakers?”
“Look in the shoe hamper.”
“Mommy, where is my Power Ranger?”
“It’s still in the toilet where your sister put it.”
“Honey, where did you put my keys?”
“On the dining room table where you left them.” And will be hurled at your head if you lose them again!
Often we are asked to locate these lost objects 2 seconds before we are walking out the door, which can make my eyeballs roll back in my head. One thing I do know is that the moment their belongings are dropped on the floor, they become invisible to my family. I, with my ex-ray vision, apparently am the only one capable of seeing these ‘lost’ items, therefore the only one to be able to clean them up.
Whenever we made a mess growing up, my mother said we had dropsy. In reality, dropsy is a dreadful disease which causes your arms and legs to swell up to elephantine proportions. I guess when your limbs are swollen like sausages, it’s impossible to pick up your toys.
The most unsavory of all our special abilities is the ultra cleaning power of mom saliva. You know the old spit on a tissue and clean off the kids face bit? I swore that I wouldn’t do that to my kids, but if I have to choose between a dirty face and the disapproving looks from Grandma, saliva wins. And besides, Mom spit is proven to have better cleaning capabilities than the most stringent household cleaner. Also, it’s only gross to our kids, which hopefully proves to be an incentive for them to stay clean.
As moms, our greatest super power of all is to somehow still love our family when they make our living room look as if a tornado has hit. Or the super human strength it takes to refrain from throttling your child when they yell out a curse word the moment a client calls. The fact that we are not quite as sharp as we used to be, is a small price to pay for the joy of having children in our life. The special powers are cool, too.
Jamie Summers has nothing on us moms!
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
It’s been 10 years since I’ve become a mommy and I have noticed a distinct decrease in my mental clarity. I do draw some comfort in knowing that I am not the only mom afflicted with this problem. My memory is shot, I can’t concentrate, and I have trouble helping my daughter with her 4th grade math. Well, to be fair, even back when I was in 4th grade, math and I were not on speaking terms.
When the Obstetrician delivered my first baby, I swear she reached in and plucked out part of my brain. Being a mother herself, she knew that I wouldn’t be using it.
Maybe it is really a blessing in disguise, otherwise I might be cognizant of how mundane my life has become. With out all that pesky brain power, I can now happily go about my day, changing diapers, picking up toys, and heating up chicken nuggets.
But do not fret mommies, all is not lost. We have been compensated for the lack of brain cells by being granted superpowers.
The most powerful of all our gifts is a super multi-tasking ability. Who else on this planet is able to juggle helping the kids with homework while making dinner, answering the phone, and changing diapers? I remember one evening in particular when I was helping my 9 year old with fractions(AHHHH!!), making dinner, feeding the dog, all while answering a potential client’s questions about the health benefits of massage therapy. From upstairs, my 4 year old yelled, “Mommy, I POOOOPED! Can you come wipe my bum?”
Needless to say, that person did not book a massage appointment.
Moms are also given super sonic hearing. We can hear a toddler opening the cookie jar from 4 rooms away. We can tell the difference between the cry of a child who is looking for attention and an outraged yell from another child because his sister threw his Power Ranger into the toilet. Like the Bionic Woman, I have that cool’ boopity boopity’ sound effect when using my extra sensory hearing (think Jamie Summers tucking her hair behind her ear, as she listens intently for the sound of Steve Austin unzipping his pants).
Fortunately, we have the ability to turn off our hearing powers at will and can tune out chaotic noise. For example, the dog can be barking and the TV is blaring, one child is singing loudly, while the other two are screaming at each other. I can ignore all this racket and continue to read my book. However, when I look over at my husband, he has his hands clamped over his ears and his eyes are rolled back into his head.
Sorry Dads, the only super power, and I use that term loosely, that a father possesses, is learning how to change a diaper. Of course, it takes a dad about 10 minutes to a mom’s 10 seconds, and he usually wanders off in search of the diaper cream he has forgotten. In that time, your baby boy has peed all over your curtains, which is not his fault because that’s what happens to boys when cold air hits their wee wees. It’s okay, because by the time they are adults, 8 out of 10 men outgrow that particular problem.
The most impressive of all our super powers though, is our built-in tracking device. We can locate any lost object in our homes.
“Mom, have you seen my sneakers?”
“Look in the shoe hamper.”
“Mommy, where is my Power Ranger?”
“It’s still in the toilet where your sister put it.”
“Honey, where did you put my keys?”
“On the dining room table where you left them.” And will be hurled at your head if you lose them again!
Often we are asked to locate these lost objects 2 seconds before we are walking out the door, which can make my eyeballs roll back in my head. One thing I do know is that the moment their belongings are dropped on the floor, they become invisible to my family. I, with my ex-ray vision, apparently am the only one capable of seeing these ‘lost’ items, therefore the only one to be able to clean them up.
Whenever we made a mess growing up, my mother said we had dropsy. In reality, dropsy is a dreadful disease which causes your arms and legs to swell up to elephantine proportions. I guess when your limbs are swollen like sausages, it’s impossible to pick up your toys.
The most unsavory of all our special abilities is the ultra cleaning power of mom saliva. You know the old spit on a tissue and clean off the kids face bit? I swore that I wouldn’t do that to my kids, but if I have to choose between a dirty face and the disapproving looks from Grandma, saliva wins. And besides, Mom spit is proven to have better cleaning capabilities than the most stringent household cleaner. Also, it’s only gross to our kids, which hopefully proves to be an incentive for them to stay clean.
As moms, our greatest super power of all is to somehow still love our family when they make our living room look as if a tornado has hit. Or the super human strength it takes to refrain from throttling your child when they yell out a curse word the moment a client calls. The fact that we are not quite as sharp as we used to be, is a small price to pay for the joy of having children in our life. The special powers are cool, too.
Jamie Summers has nothing on us moms!
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Friday, April 2, 2010
THAT PART!!!
THAT PART!!!!
Why do we scold children when they say or do something inappropriate? Young kids don’t know yet that shaking their butts could be seen as something improper because they are too innocent to understand the dynamics of adult naughtiness. The reason that they repeat the unsuitable behavior is because someone laughed the first time they did it.
To avoid some of this silliness, professionals state that it’s important to teach children the proper names for their…pee pees. As a mother of 3, I completely disagree. I’ll give you an example of why using the clinical terms for private parts may not be in your best interest.
When my daughter was around 2 years old, she followed me into the bathroom (once you have kids, you will never pee alone again). She pointed to my nether regions in horror and yelled, “THAT PART!!” I didn’t correct her with the clinical term and a few days later I was very happy about that decision. We were in the public library’s bathroom, and she took one look at my hoochie and screamed at the top of her lungs,”THAT PART, THAT PART!!!” Yes it was embarrassing and I could hear the librarian’s shhhs through the bathroom door, but could you imagine if she had yelled “VAGINA!!” at the top of her lungs? The librarians there are like book Nazis as it is. Just imagine the flogging I would receive if my child loudly screamed out the names of unseemly body parts into the hallowed silence. Also, I for one would hate to disturb all the special folks of Phoenixville that use the library computers to cruise porn sites.
I’ve noticed that every family seems to have their own euphemisms for private parts. In our family, we just call them pee pee’s, with no gender distinction. A ‘unit’ is what they call the family jewels in my friend’s household. This caused some confusion for her kids when “The Unit” aired for the first time on TV, and apparently when they work on a new math unit in school, a lot of snickering goes on behind the teacher’s back.
It has never concerned me too much whenever kids make fart jokes or are talking about body parts. I do stop them when they get too rude, but I know it’s normal for them to think it’s funny. What’s even more normal is when small children start to be aware of their bodies, and in the case of my 4 year old son, very aware of the female body.
When Donny was about 18 months old, my sister was visiting from out of town and slept in our spare bed, which is in Donny’s room. He was still in his crib and woke up one morning and spied his aunt wearing a tank top and shorts for pajamas. Let’s just say that what nature gave me a small portion of, my sister got in abundance. Donny took one look at her and said. “OHHHH, boobies!”
His dad was very proud.
From then on, he has loved the busty ladies. When I told Donny that our friend, who is divinely boobiliscous, was going to be coming over, he said, “I’m gonna hug her allllll over!” And recently at a holiday party, my cousins were standing in a circle talking, when the Donster decided he would spread some love around. With a big smile on his face, he went around the circle, giving my voluptuous cousins many, many hugs. His face came up to where every man wished that his did. The cousins thought it was hysterical, while all the men in the room looked on, mumbling something that sounded like, “lucky little bastard”. Then Donny announced, “I’m done,” cutting the ladies off from his lovin’. I thought, my God, he has already learned the trick to being irresistible; leave them wanting more.
Once again, he made his dad proud.
At some point, kids understand enough to know why bad words and showing of naughty bits is inappropriate, at which time the bad behavior is increased a gazillion percent. The other day, my son’s 5 1\2 year old friend was over for a play date, when in typical gross boy fashion he said, “Let’s pretends we’re penises!” Donny carefully considered this for a moment and replied, “I don’t got a penis suit.” Which is a good thing, since owning a penis suit would be really disturbing and most likely cause Child Protective Services to come knocking at my door.
My daughters have a different type of disconcerting conduct. It usually revolves around the fact that girls seem to be aware of their bodies from a much earlier age. If you’ve seen girls dance, you know what I’m talking about. They shake their bottoms from the moment they can stand up with out falling over. I think it has something to do with having a lower center of gravity. My husband is scared that they are practicing for a future career in pole dancing.
This propensity to shaking their tushies, of course has Grandmom apoplectic. It is a sin, close to that of a grandchild being jailed for grand theft auto. I guess it is a grandmother thing, because I remember my Memom giving my sister and I lessons on walking properly, as only a good Irish Catholic could. She would have us practice walking by holding in our stomachs and tucking in our butts in a hyena-like fashion. I found that it was impossible to shake my butt while sucking in my 7 year old gut.
I, however, take full responsibility for any inappropriate behavior and all butt jokes that my kids take part in, mostly because I am the one who taught them those jokes. The reason for this is that I have a serious addiction to the sound of my children’s laugher. It is simply the best sound on the planet, and I realized that a surefire way to get a kid to crack up is to say something funny about a bum.
Even though I am a responsible adult, I still think butt jokes are hilarious. I blame it all on my parents, since I got my warped sense of humor from them.
While growing up, we were introduced to a myriad of their interesting, funny friends. I distinctly remember one of their friends singing a very off color song about our neighbor’s dog. The title of the song was, ‘Tanus sat on her anus’. This is how I learned the word anus, and my mother is really lucky that I never shouted it out in public. It was all quite respectable since the song was written by their Lebanese friend who was an Anesthesiologist with NASA. He was also married to a famous Spanish opera singer.
I am not kidding. Even as a child I understood how much funnier the song was because an esteemed Doctor was singing it.
So you can see why a little butt shaking and enthusiasm over big ta tas doesn’t unsettle me too much.
And if I’m completely wrong not to be concerned, it’s okay because it does have its practical side. Many a young lady has pole danced her way through college.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Why do we scold children when they say or do something inappropriate? Young kids don’t know yet that shaking their butts could be seen as something improper because they are too innocent to understand the dynamics of adult naughtiness. The reason that they repeat the unsuitable behavior is because someone laughed the first time they did it.
To avoid some of this silliness, professionals state that it’s important to teach children the proper names for their…pee pees. As a mother of 3, I completely disagree. I’ll give you an example of why using the clinical terms for private parts may not be in your best interest.
When my daughter was around 2 years old, she followed me into the bathroom (once you have kids, you will never pee alone again). She pointed to my nether regions in horror and yelled, “THAT PART!!” I didn’t correct her with the clinical term and a few days later I was very happy about that decision. We were in the public library’s bathroom, and she took one look at my hoochie and screamed at the top of her lungs,”THAT PART, THAT PART!!!” Yes it was embarrassing and I could hear the librarian’s shhhs through the bathroom door, but could you imagine if she had yelled “VAGINA!!” at the top of her lungs? The librarians there are like book Nazis as it is. Just imagine the flogging I would receive if my child loudly screamed out the names of unseemly body parts into the hallowed silence. Also, I for one would hate to disturb all the special folks of Phoenixville that use the library computers to cruise porn sites.
I’ve noticed that every family seems to have their own euphemisms for private parts. In our family, we just call them pee pee’s, with no gender distinction. A ‘unit’ is what they call the family jewels in my friend’s household. This caused some confusion for her kids when “The Unit” aired for the first time on TV, and apparently when they work on a new math unit in school, a lot of snickering goes on behind the teacher’s back.
It has never concerned me too much whenever kids make fart jokes or are talking about body parts. I do stop them when they get too rude, but I know it’s normal for them to think it’s funny. What’s even more normal is when small children start to be aware of their bodies, and in the case of my 4 year old son, very aware of the female body.
When Donny was about 18 months old, my sister was visiting from out of town and slept in our spare bed, which is in Donny’s room. He was still in his crib and woke up one morning and spied his aunt wearing a tank top and shorts for pajamas. Let’s just say that what nature gave me a small portion of, my sister got in abundance. Donny took one look at her and said. “OHHHH, boobies!”
His dad was very proud.
From then on, he has loved the busty ladies. When I told Donny that our friend, who is divinely boobiliscous, was going to be coming over, he said, “I’m gonna hug her allllll over!” And recently at a holiday party, my cousins were standing in a circle talking, when the Donster decided he would spread some love around. With a big smile on his face, he went around the circle, giving my voluptuous cousins many, many hugs. His face came up to where every man wished that his did. The cousins thought it was hysterical, while all the men in the room looked on, mumbling something that sounded like, “lucky little bastard”. Then Donny announced, “I’m done,” cutting the ladies off from his lovin’. I thought, my God, he has already learned the trick to being irresistible; leave them wanting more.
Once again, he made his dad proud.
At some point, kids understand enough to know why bad words and showing of naughty bits is inappropriate, at which time the bad behavior is increased a gazillion percent. The other day, my son’s 5 1\2 year old friend was over for a play date, when in typical gross boy fashion he said, “Let’s pretends we’re penises!” Donny carefully considered this for a moment and replied, “I don’t got a penis suit.” Which is a good thing, since owning a penis suit would be really disturbing and most likely cause Child Protective Services to come knocking at my door.
My daughters have a different type of disconcerting conduct. It usually revolves around the fact that girls seem to be aware of their bodies from a much earlier age. If you’ve seen girls dance, you know what I’m talking about. They shake their bottoms from the moment they can stand up with out falling over. I think it has something to do with having a lower center of gravity. My husband is scared that they are practicing for a future career in pole dancing.
This propensity to shaking their tushies, of course has Grandmom apoplectic. It is a sin, close to that of a grandchild being jailed for grand theft auto. I guess it is a grandmother thing, because I remember my Memom giving my sister and I lessons on walking properly, as only a good Irish Catholic could. She would have us practice walking by holding in our stomachs and tucking in our butts in a hyena-like fashion. I found that it was impossible to shake my butt while sucking in my 7 year old gut.
I, however, take full responsibility for any inappropriate behavior and all butt jokes that my kids take part in, mostly because I am the one who taught them those jokes. The reason for this is that I have a serious addiction to the sound of my children’s laugher. It is simply the best sound on the planet, and I realized that a surefire way to get a kid to crack up is to say something funny about a bum.
Even though I am a responsible adult, I still think butt jokes are hilarious. I blame it all on my parents, since I got my warped sense of humor from them.
While growing up, we were introduced to a myriad of their interesting, funny friends. I distinctly remember one of their friends singing a very off color song about our neighbor’s dog. The title of the song was, ‘Tanus sat on her anus’. This is how I learned the word anus, and my mother is really lucky that I never shouted it out in public. It was all quite respectable since the song was written by their Lebanese friend who was an Anesthesiologist with NASA. He was also married to a famous Spanish opera singer.
I am not kidding. Even as a child I understood how much funnier the song was because an esteemed Doctor was singing it.
So you can see why a little butt shaking and enthusiasm over big ta tas doesn’t unsettle me too much.
And if I’m completely wrong not to be concerned, it’s okay because it does have its practical side. Many a young lady has pole danced her way through college.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Monday, March 29, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
SAY AHHH
SAY AHHH
I had the misfortune to have several bouts of strep last summer, and noticed some odd things at the doctor’s office.
I visited my doctor sometimes as often as every other week. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling the best, or as my Irish friend says, I wasn’t feeling the May West (large breasted and slutty??). As if I wasn’t unhappy enough, feeling like I had swallowed barbed wire, they still felt compelled to weigh me each time. Talk about adding insult to injury.
There are some mysterious things going on at the doctor’s office. Foremost is the secret little door in the bathroom. I know it’s for the patient to discretely put their pee-pee sample in. Personally, I think that it functions more as a biological speak easy, and some guy named Mugsy is on the other side of that door. This may have something to do with why I have such a hard time producing a sample. My other theories are that it is really a magician’s vanishing cabinet or maybe the white rabbit’s back door to Wonderland. I told you I hadn’t been well.
As children, whenever we needed to provide the doctor with a urine sample, my mother would hand us a LARGE empty peanut butter jar. We then, of course, would feel the need to fill it up to the brim. The jar was then placed into a brown paper bag, and we would bring it to our appointment, hoping that no one would be the wiser. I really thought that the other patients would assume we were just bringing the doctor his lunch. The nurse would peek into the bag and laugh. I would then die of embarrassment.
Speaking of embarrassment, I had a gynecologist appointment the other day and was quite amused when they asked for a picture ID. I wondered if they thought I was trying to steal someone else’s appointment time. Or is uterus identity theft on the rise? I never discovered the answer to this or as to why every year I have to fill out the same patient information sheet. I know my birthday and race have not changed since last year. I mean, if they are asking us to make a choice, I’d like to change my birthday to 1982 and I would now like to be Asian.
As far as your family’s medical history, I guess it could change or this time you could suddenly remember to mention Uncle Bob’s third nipple. Also, unless you are a shrinking senior citizen, my height will most likely be the same as last year. Again, if I’m getting a choice, I’d like to be 6 foot 4 inches tall, that way I’d be the perfect weight.
3 hours later, after I’m done with the paper work, I am brought back to an examining room and handed a paper gown that is 47 times too small. Now, for God’s sake, the nurse just weighed me, she knows I’m not a size 2. I know they have bigger gowns because they see enormous pregnant woman in their office all the time. I can’t complain too much, because I figure the doctor is going to be seeing all of me in a few moments anyways. The nurse very nicely gives me a paper blanket to cover my naughty bits with, which I use since it’s a real pretty pink color.
In all honesty, I’m always happy to see my gynecologist because she is so nice and she delivered one of my children. I also like her because she never points at me and giggles when she sees me around town.
The doctor has three kids the same age as mine, so we catch up on what has been going on with our darlings. We compare notes on their activities while she is giving me a breast exam. We talk about our last family vacation as she asks me to scoot down further, and we discuss our challenging middle children when…well for those faint of heart, when she is making sure my girl parts are working. It’s then that I realize that woman have perfected the art of conversation. We are so proficient at it that we feel as completely at ease chatting over coffee as chatting during an exam of our nether region.
There is no mystery as to why I so look forward to any doctor’s appointments. First of all, as a mom, you spend so much time looking out for your kid’s well being, that it’s nice when it’s our turn to be taken care of. Most of all, I cherish any time alone that I can get. If I have to go to the doctor because I’m sick, I think, at least I’m not at home serving up chicken nuggets, while I’m trying not to lose my nuggets. When I’m having a mammogram, I figure there are no crying kids present, so bring it on. When I am half-naked in an ill-fitting paper gown, I see it as an opportunity to catch up with another mom, all while making sure my hoochie is healthy.
copywrite2010 cwaldman
I had the misfortune to have several bouts of strep last summer, and noticed some odd things at the doctor’s office.
I visited my doctor sometimes as often as every other week. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling the best, or as my Irish friend says, I wasn’t feeling the May West (large breasted and slutty??). As if I wasn’t unhappy enough, feeling like I had swallowed barbed wire, they still felt compelled to weigh me each time. Talk about adding insult to injury.
There are some mysterious things going on at the doctor’s office. Foremost is the secret little door in the bathroom. I know it’s for the patient to discretely put their pee-pee sample in. Personally, I think that it functions more as a biological speak easy, and some guy named Mugsy is on the other side of that door. This may have something to do with why I have such a hard time producing a sample. My other theories are that it is really a magician’s vanishing cabinet or maybe the white rabbit’s back door to Wonderland. I told you I hadn’t been well.
As children, whenever we needed to provide the doctor with a urine sample, my mother would hand us a LARGE empty peanut butter jar. We then, of course, would feel the need to fill it up to the brim. The jar was then placed into a brown paper bag, and we would bring it to our appointment, hoping that no one would be the wiser. I really thought that the other patients would assume we were just bringing the doctor his lunch. The nurse would peek into the bag and laugh. I would then die of embarrassment.
Speaking of embarrassment, I had a gynecologist appointment the other day and was quite amused when they asked for a picture ID. I wondered if they thought I was trying to steal someone else’s appointment time. Or is uterus identity theft on the rise? I never discovered the answer to this or as to why every year I have to fill out the same patient information sheet. I know my birthday and race have not changed since last year. I mean, if they are asking us to make a choice, I’d like to change my birthday to 1982 and I would now like to be Asian.
As far as your family’s medical history, I guess it could change or this time you could suddenly remember to mention Uncle Bob’s third nipple. Also, unless you are a shrinking senior citizen, my height will most likely be the same as last year. Again, if I’m getting a choice, I’d like to be 6 foot 4 inches tall, that way I’d be the perfect weight.
3 hours later, after I’m done with the paper work, I am brought back to an examining room and handed a paper gown that is 47 times too small. Now, for God’s sake, the nurse just weighed me, she knows I’m not a size 2. I know they have bigger gowns because they see enormous pregnant woman in their office all the time. I can’t complain too much, because I figure the doctor is going to be seeing all of me in a few moments anyways. The nurse very nicely gives me a paper blanket to cover my naughty bits with, which I use since it’s a real pretty pink color.
In all honesty, I’m always happy to see my gynecologist because she is so nice and she delivered one of my children. I also like her because she never points at me and giggles when she sees me around town.
The doctor has three kids the same age as mine, so we catch up on what has been going on with our darlings. We compare notes on their activities while she is giving me a breast exam. We talk about our last family vacation as she asks me to scoot down further, and we discuss our challenging middle children when…well for those faint of heart, when she is making sure my girl parts are working. It’s then that I realize that woman have perfected the art of conversation. We are so proficient at it that we feel as completely at ease chatting over coffee as chatting during an exam of our nether region.
There is no mystery as to why I so look forward to any doctor’s appointments. First of all, as a mom, you spend so much time looking out for your kid’s well being, that it’s nice when it’s our turn to be taken care of. Most of all, I cherish any time alone that I can get. If I have to go to the doctor because I’m sick, I think, at least I’m not at home serving up chicken nuggets, while I’m trying not to lose my nuggets. When I’m having a mammogram, I figure there are no crying kids present, so bring it on. When I am half-naked in an ill-fitting paper gown, I see it as an opportunity to catch up with another mom, all while making sure my hoochie is healthy.
copywrite2010 cwaldman
Monday, March 15, 2010
Athletic Supporter
Athletic Supporter
I’m not interested in most sports, and honestly the majority of them leave me confused by their rules. Even while watching the Olympics, I was mystified by exactly what was going on in some of the events.
Take curling for example. I’m not quite sure what the object of this game is, other then not to fall on the ice. Why, for example, does that one guy feel a need to launch a wheel of cheese across the ice? It seems an odd sort of way to spend your time. I have to admit that I do like the leisurely way in which he slides. It looks so relaxing. He is so focused on where that cheese is going; I don’t think he’s even aware that he is still gliding across the ice. And how, in God’s name, does he get his legs in that position? It’s as if he’s playing some malevolent game of Twister. But the best part of curling by far is when those two men rush over and start furiously scrubbing in front of the wheel of cheese with their mops. If those guys are single, some woman better snatch him up soon. Your kitchen floors would be forever spotless if you married a guy with that sort of talent.
Apparently curling has become very popular since the Olympics. Nobody understands the rules, but true to the American Way, we love what we don’t fully comprehend. It’s human nature to believe if we don’t understand it; it must be very advanced and sophisticated, therefore, pretty nifty. That’s why people rave about abstract art, the stock market, and Jesse Jackson. No one has ever been able to decipher a word that man says, but he emotes with such conviction, that he must be cool.
I still manage to enjoy some sports, despite my lack of knowledge. Whenever I need a nap, I put a game of golf on. Everyone is so quiet when the golfers are putting, that you can actually hear birds singing and airplanes overhead. When the announcers start talking in their soothing hushed tones, I instantly fall into a coma. In addition to catching up on some much needed sleep, I like golf because of how civilized the spectators are. There are no loud cheers or jeers, just polite clapping. Even the rainbow-haired John 3:16 guy is reserved.
Another fun sport is Tennis. I don’t get the scoring, but I think it is so sweet that it involves love. It obviously is the hardest sport to play because of all the grunting the players do when they hit the ball. I can really relate, because that is the same noise I make whenever I get up off of the couch.
I really, really don’t get boxing, though. I guess it’s a guy thing, with all the pummeling and sweating and baggy shorts. What I do like is that extreme wrestling with the two beefy dudes with those manly muscular legs. I don’t get that either, but I enjoy imagining that it is me they are wrestling. And you know what? I would totally let them win.
Not only do the rules usually confuse me in many sports, but also what constitutes a real sport. My husband, along with many other men, have strong opinions as to what is a ‘real’ sport. By strong opinion, I mean that my husband rants and I just nod my head until I resemble a bobble head doll. His ranting starts with,” I’m sorry, but that is NOT a sport!” In this category are; synchronized swimming, figure skating, curling, surfing, skateboarding, race car driving, and many, many, more. (For a more detailed list, please call him, but make sure you hold the phone away from your ear) Apparently, if the event is judged, rather than scored, it is not a sport. Also, if it’s girly, like figure skating or spasmodic, like synchronized swimming, it’s just plain unmanly to watch.
I have my own theory on how to discern if a sport is legitimate. You know those revealing uni-suits that the speed skaters and skiers wore in the Olympics? I say, put them on the participants of some of these so-called-sports and see how athletic they really look. Can you imagine some of those curlers wearing a form fitting suit? Do you think bowlers should wear lycra? I can feel you all shuddering, so I know that I made my point.
I think that synchronized swimmers could pull off the look, but they have other reasons to be disqualified. First of all, I don’t think we are setting a good example for kids by following a sport that looks like fancy drowning. And any time you have to wear that much rouge during an event, I’m sorry, that is NOT a sport!
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
I’m not interested in most sports, and honestly the majority of them leave me confused by their rules. Even while watching the Olympics, I was mystified by exactly what was going on in some of the events.
Take curling for example. I’m not quite sure what the object of this game is, other then not to fall on the ice. Why, for example, does that one guy feel a need to launch a wheel of cheese across the ice? It seems an odd sort of way to spend your time. I have to admit that I do like the leisurely way in which he slides. It looks so relaxing. He is so focused on where that cheese is going; I don’t think he’s even aware that he is still gliding across the ice. And how, in God’s name, does he get his legs in that position? It’s as if he’s playing some malevolent game of Twister. But the best part of curling by far is when those two men rush over and start furiously scrubbing in front of the wheel of cheese with their mops. If those guys are single, some woman better snatch him up soon. Your kitchen floors would be forever spotless if you married a guy with that sort of talent.
Apparently curling has become very popular since the Olympics. Nobody understands the rules, but true to the American Way, we love what we don’t fully comprehend. It’s human nature to believe if we don’t understand it; it must be very advanced and sophisticated, therefore, pretty nifty. That’s why people rave about abstract art, the stock market, and Jesse Jackson. No one has ever been able to decipher a word that man says, but he emotes with such conviction, that he must be cool.
I still manage to enjoy some sports, despite my lack of knowledge. Whenever I need a nap, I put a game of golf on. Everyone is so quiet when the golfers are putting, that you can actually hear birds singing and airplanes overhead. When the announcers start talking in their soothing hushed tones, I instantly fall into a coma. In addition to catching up on some much needed sleep, I like golf because of how civilized the spectators are. There are no loud cheers or jeers, just polite clapping. Even the rainbow-haired John 3:16 guy is reserved.
Another fun sport is Tennis. I don’t get the scoring, but I think it is so sweet that it involves love. It obviously is the hardest sport to play because of all the grunting the players do when they hit the ball. I can really relate, because that is the same noise I make whenever I get up off of the couch.
I really, really don’t get boxing, though. I guess it’s a guy thing, with all the pummeling and sweating and baggy shorts. What I do like is that extreme wrestling with the two beefy dudes with those manly muscular legs. I don’t get that either, but I enjoy imagining that it is me they are wrestling. And you know what? I would totally let them win.
Not only do the rules usually confuse me in many sports, but also what constitutes a real sport. My husband, along with many other men, have strong opinions as to what is a ‘real’ sport. By strong opinion, I mean that my husband rants and I just nod my head until I resemble a bobble head doll. His ranting starts with,” I’m sorry, but that is NOT a sport!” In this category are; synchronized swimming, figure skating, curling, surfing, skateboarding, race car driving, and many, many, more. (For a more detailed list, please call him, but make sure you hold the phone away from your ear) Apparently, if the event is judged, rather than scored, it is not a sport. Also, if it’s girly, like figure skating or spasmodic, like synchronized swimming, it’s just plain unmanly to watch.
I have my own theory on how to discern if a sport is legitimate. You know those revealing uni-suits that the speed skaters and skiers wore in the Olympics? I say, put them on the participants of some of these so-called-sports and see how athletic they really look. Can you imagine some of those curlers wearing a form fitting suit? Do you think bowlers should wear lycra? I can feel you all shuddering, so I know that I made my point.
I think that synchronized swimmers could pull off the look, but they have other reasons to be disqualified. First of all, I don’t think we are setting a good example for kids by following a sport that looks like fancy drowning. And any time you have to wear that much rouge during an event, I’m sorry, that is NOT a sport!
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Saturday, March 6, 2010
KIDS ARE ICKY
KIDS ARE ICKY
My kids are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I never grow tired of looking at their precious faces, and they are a constant form of amusement. Having said that, I will be the first to admit, that they should be condemned by the Board of Health.
I found out too late, that children are really gross. They often have substances coming out of their little bodies that no other human should have to clean up.
It all began when the nurse in the maternity ward excitedly announced to my husband and I that our daughter had her first stinky diaper. What she failed to mention, is that our infant had been drinking from the La Brea Tar Pit. Looking into the contents of that first diaper, I nearly bolted for the door and headed up to the Psyche ward of the hospital.
Since then, I have spread the news to every pregnant woman that I meet. It’s a simple message; say “Yes” to the epidural and “No” to the first diaper change. Moms have a lifetime to change nappies, so while you have the chance, let the nurse do it. Or better yet, let your husband do it. For God sake, you just pushed that child out of you, (which felt a lot like squeezing a Chevy through the eye of a needle); it’s the least he can do. Just make sure you have the video camera handy.
The hospital very nicely sends you home with a care package of diapers, formula, a blanket, and baby wipes. What would be more practical is if they provided you with a lifetime supply of sterile gloves and a bio-hazard suit. Believe me; you are going to need them.
At around the time that Junior starts to crawl, he has perfected the art of putting everything he finds into his mouth or up his nose. This area of expertise is only matched by his ability to find slimy substances to smear into his hair. Just so you know, the diaper change gross-out will continue for another 2 to 3 years with some projectile vomiting and drooling thrown in for variety. I know a lot about the projectile vomiting, because when our Amy was small, she was like an infant Mt. Vesuvius. It got so bad, that I was preparing to channel my South Philly relatives, and get plastic slip covers. I knew this wouldn’t work, so I decided to buy new furniture when the kids stopped being so messy, in other words, when they’re in college.
Of course, all this messiness has a way of spilling over onto mom and dad. I warn you that if you see a mother with a stain on her clothing, do not ask her what it is. YOU DO NOT WANT TO KNOW! According to her offspring, a mom’s main function is to be a walking hand towel. If a child has messy hands, he thinks, why bother to wash my hands when mom’s pant leg is so near. No tissue in sight? All you need to do is pretend that you are hugging Mommy, and use her shirt tails to wipe your snotty nose on. If there is no trash can handy for your old gum, your mother will never notice if you stick it to the seat of her pants. I’m thinking of starting a line of disposable clothing for mothers, made exclusively out of tissues.
There is also the phenomenon of how fast kids can get dirty. I’ll give one of my kids a bath and afterwards they’ll be sweet smelling and squeaky clean. They will then go play in their room for 2.5 minutes and come out with a ring of dirt around their necks and grime under their fingernails. How do they do it? They are like a magnet for filth. I’m beginning to suspect that there is a secret passageway to a coal mine under their beds.
The great equalizer is how much we love them. We get used to their ickiness because of that awesome love and also as a survival skill. We just become numb to it after a while. I guess this is nature’s way of preventing us from trading our children in for a cleaner model. The funny part is that if we see another child doing the same exact disgusting thing our kid just did, we are ready to lose our lunch. I guess the filth we know is more tolerable than a stranger’s grime.
I hate to be sexist, but boys are the slimiest of the genders. I’ve mentioned before that my 4 year old son stuck his head in the toilet. His other disgusting hobbies include missing the toilet every time he goes, excavating his nose in public, and eating things off of the floor. We took a tour of a potato chip factory once, and while I was marveling at the engineering genius of the assembly line; Donny was busy stuffing his face with potato chips he had found on the floor. True to 4 year old boy form, when I told him to stop, he only crammed the chips faster into his face.
He’s been known to eat French fries off the floor of fast food restaurants. Although it’s embarrassing and unsanitary, it can be cost effective. He can get so many into his mouth before I can stop him that I don’t have to order any fries. One time at home, he found a brown blob on the floor and popped it into his mouth. He them announced, “Oh, it is a brownie!” You really have to have a low gross-out threshold to risk what a brown blob could be in my house. This is why I never want him to look under the sofa cushions. I’m afraid he’ll come up with a full course meal.
So if you are preparing to start a family, you need to really lower your hygiene standards. Maybe work a shift as a garbage man to temper you gag reflex. Or better yet, come baby sit for my three kiddies.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
My kids are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I never grow tired of looking at their precious faces, and they are a constant form of amusement. Having said that, I will be the first to admit, that they should be condemned by the Board of Health.
I found out too late, that children are really gross. They often have substances coming out of their little bodies that no other human should have to clean up.
It all began when the nurse in the maternity ward excitedly announced to my husband and I that our daughter had her first stinky diaper. What she failed to mention, is that our infant had been drinking from the La Brea Tar Pit. Looking into the contents of that first diaper, I nearly bolted for the door and headed up to the Psyche ward of the hospital.
Since then, I have spread the news to every pregnant woman that I meet. It’s a simple message; say “Yes” to the epidural and “No” to the first diaper change. Moms have a lifetime to change nappies, so while you have the chance, let the nurse do it. Or better yet, let your husband do it. For God sake, you just pushed that child out of you, (which felt a lot like squeezing a Chevy through the eye of a needle); it’s the least he can do. Just make sure you have the video camera handy.
The hospital very nicely sends you home with a care package of diapers, formula, a blanket, and baby wipes. What would be more practical is if they provided you with a lifetime supply of sterile gloves and a bio-hazard suit. Believe me; you are going to need them.
At around the time that Junior starts to crawl, he has perfected the art of putting everything he finds into his mouth or up his nose. This area of expertise is only matched by his ability to find slimy substances to smear into his hair. Just so you know, the diaper change gross-out will continue for another 2 to 3 years with some projectile vomiting and drooling thrown in for variety. I know a lot about the projectile vomiting, because when our Amy was small, she was like an infant Mt. Vesuvius. It got so bad, that I was preparing to channel my South Philly relatives, and get plastic slip covers. I knew this wouldn’t work, so I decided to buy new furniture when the kids stopped being so messy, in other words, when they’re in college.
Of course, all this messiness has a way of spilling over onto mom and dad. I warn you that if you see a mother with a stain on her clothing, do not ask her what it is. YOU DO NOT WANT TO KNOW! According to her offspring, a mom’s main function is to be a walking hand towel. If a child has messy hands, he thinks, why bother to wash my hands when mom’s pant leg is so near. No tissue in sight? All you need to do is pretend that you are hugging Mommy, and use her shirt tails to wipe your snotty nose on. If there is no trash can handy for your old gum, your mother will never notice if you stick it to the seat of her pants. I’m thinking of starting a line of disposable clothing for mothers, made exclusively out of tissues.
There is also the phenomenon of how fast kids can get dirty. I’ll give one of my kids a bath and afterwards they’ll be sweet smelling and squeaky clean. They will then go play in their room for 2.5 minutes and come out with a ring of dirt around their necks and grime under their fingernails. How do they do it? They are like a magnet for filth. I’m beginning to suspect that there is a secret passageway to a coal mine under their beds.
The great equalizer is how much we love them. We get used to their ickiness because of that awesome love and also as a survival skill. We just become numb to it after a while. I guess this is nature’s way of preventing us from trading our children in for a cleaner model. The funny part is that if we see another child doing the same exact disgusting thing our kid just did, we are ready to lose our lunch. I guess the filth we know is more tolerable than a stranger’s grime.
I hate to be sexist, but boys are the slimiest of the genders. I’ve mentioned before that my 4 year old son stuck his head in the toilet. His other disgusting hobbies include missing the toilet every time he goes, excavating his nose in public, and eating things off of the floor. We took a tour of a potato chip factory once, and while I was marveling at the engineering genius of the assembly line; Donny was busy stuffing his face with potato chips he had found on the floor. True to 4 year old boy form, when I told him to stop, he only crammed the chips faster into his face.
He’s been known to eat French fries off the floor of fast food restaurants. Although it’s embarrassing and unsanitary, it can be cost effective. He can get so many into his mouth before I can stop him that I don’t have to order any fries. One time at home, he found a brown blob on the floor and popped it into his mouth. He them announced, “Oh, it is a brownie!” You really have to have a low gross-out threshold to risk what a brown blob could be in my house. This is why I never want him to look under the sofa cushions. I’m afraid he’ll come up with a full course meal.
So if you are preparing to start a family, you need to really lower your hygiene standards. Maybe work a shift as a garbage man to temper you gag reflex. Or better yet, come baby sit for my three kiddies.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Sweat 'Til It Hurts
SWEAT ‘TIL IT HURTS
As some of you may already know after reading 5K FUN, I run more like a 3 legged Warthog, than a Cheetah. But despite this, I am going to try and do another 5K race with my daughter in May. In order to actually keep up with my child, for at least part of the race, I started working out again at the gym, which is something like hitting the restart button on an ancient furnace. There’s a lot of clanging and smoke that comes from my exhaust.
I’m not trying to become a marathon runner. In fact, I don’t need to run fast, I just want to run faster. I would be happy if my shuffle becomes speedier than that of the undead.
So, after a lengthy absence, I started going back to the YMCA, which has become very well equipped since its recent remodeling. Walking into the enormous front entrance of the new YMCA, is akin to entering the lobby of a fine hotel, with plants, a fountain, and a long counter which resembles a concierge’s desk. My first time back, I went up to the desk and asked for their penthouse suite for the night. The girl behind the desk just looked blankly at me. Clearly you lose your sense of humor when having to deal with sweaty people all day.
Typically, there is a senior citizen taking your ID card and scanning it into the computer. Often there is a smirk on their wrinkled faces; perhaps amused by all of us young(er) fools for killing ourselves at the gym. Either that or our weight is shown on the computer screen.
The Wellness Center is quite large, with a section for free weights as well as an area for the Nautilus machines. Behind that are rows of equipment designed for a cardio workout. Whoever designed the workout room is a genius. All the treadmills, my choice as instrument of torture, are placed under a row of TV sets. They are all cleverly tuned to the most mind numbing shows known to mankind. You are then forced to run as fast as you can, reaching out to try, in vain, to push the off button on the TV. No matter how fast you run, you can never quite reach it. It’s like the carrot held out in front of a fat donkey pulling a cart.
It is cruel, yet affective.
When I ran in the 5K, there were a few folks who trailed me and had the privilege of watching my butt register a 5.7 on the Rictor Scale. I wasn’t too mortified because I knew I would never have to see them again after that day. However, the same can’t be said for the poor suckers who are in the row of elliptical machines behind my treadmill at the gym. I think that I recognize some of them snickering behind my back in the grocery store.
Don’t get me wrong, I think Jay Lo and I have it going on. Of course, Jay Lo has a lot less going on in other parts of her body than I do. Even so, I believe woman are meant to be soft and curvy, and I know for a fact that my husband, God bless him, would cry like a little girl if I lost my booty.
I do wonder though, if those people on the elliptical machines behind me have a craving for Jello after watching my jiggle. I’m expecting an endorsement check from the Jello Company any day now.
With all the physical fitness going on, there is something inevitable that happens while working out, and that’s sweating. I don’t mind perspiring so much; it’s all the other people sweating that gross me out. The gym provides anti-cootie wipes so that we may conscientiously clean off the Nautilus machines when we’re done sliming them. They are very effective at spreading your perspiration around evenly onto the equipment. So when you are lying down on the Abdominal Annihilator Apparatus, working on your 6 pack, you are in reality covering yourself in a strangers sweat. The last time this happened to me was in the late 80’s, and I was drunk, but I actually enjoyed myself. At least I think I did. I’m not sure, because I was drunk, and most of the 80’s are a blur.
Speaking of strangers, the YMCA attracts a myriad of humanity who are trying to get buff. The hunks that press metal in the free weight room offer more in the way of viewing pleasure than the brain-eroding programs on the TV. Also, a number of senior citizens make use of the Wellness Center. I think it’s great that they are still physically active in their advanced years. I just wish that a course in what is appropriate fitness attire was given when they got their membership. Most of them wear their everyday street clothes of brightly colored polyester suits with shiny white Rockports. Others do make an attempt at proper workout gear by wearing sweat pants 47 sizes too big. I know we all shrink a little when we age, but these grannies look like they did all their shrinking in one day. Come to think of it, I can deal with baggy sweats when the alternative is seeing Grampa in Spandex.
Some folks at the gym are such an example of human perfection that they look as if they lift weights in their sleep. Somehow though, their clothes are unwrinkled, they don’t have a hair out of place, and their makeup is unmussed. They look so fit, yet they tend to spend a lot of their time gabbing with the other Stepford wives, I mean, friends, instead of working out. When they actually do get on a treadmill, I watch and watch them, waiting for the time when one of them does something less then perfect, like fall off. I wonder if maybe one of them will slip and get their manicure stuck in the elliptical machine. It never happens.
More annoying then the Perfect People are the woman that are Uber thin. They are not quite anorexic, but close. I recognize them by the fact that their thighs are as wide as one of my arms, and that their cheekbones could cut paper. I want to grab these poor girls and yell, “For the love of God, just eat a cheese steak, will you?” But I don’t think that would go over to well in an establishment that is a proponent of health.
I’ve tried other forms of exercise before, such as Yoga. I quickly realized that the only part of it that I enjoyed was when I got to lie down between doing the difficult postures, or while meditating. For this reason, I do enjoy the recumbent bike, because you are so reclined, that I found out that if you set the level to 0, you can take a nap while doing your cardio workout.
Now that’s my idea of multitasking.
Another favorite of mine is the Abductor/Adductor machine. This handy device works the outer and inner thigh, a problem area for many ladies. While working these spots, apparently it is of paramount importance that you spread your legs open and then close them again in the most vulgar fashion possible.
It is the naughtiest of all the Nautilus machines.
I think that it would be fun to play some really raunchy porn music while using the Abductor/Adductor machine. It would weed out the light weights, and only those serious about getting fit would remain.
Who knows, it could become a spectator sport, somewhat like pole dancing. But I warn you; look away when Grandma climbs on.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
As some of you may already know after reading 5K FUN, I run more like a 3 legged Warthog, than a Cheetah. But despite this, I am going to try and do another 5K race with my daughter in May. In order to actually keep up with my child, for at least part of the race, I started working out again at the gym, which is something like hitting the restart button on an ancient furnace. There’s a lot of clanging and smoke that comes from my exhaust.
I’m not trying to become a marathon runner. In fact, I don’t need to run fast, I just want to run faster. I would be happy if my shuffle becomes speedier than that of the undead.
So, after a lengthy absence, I started going back to the YMCA, which has become very well equipped since its recent remodeling. Walking into the enormous front entrance of the new YMCA, is akin to entering the lobby of a fine hotel, with plants, a fountain, and a long counter which resembles a concierge’s desk. My first time back, I went up to the desk and asked for their penthouse suite for the night. The girl behind the desk just looked blankly at me. Clearly you lose your sense of humor when having to deal with sweaty people all day.
Typically, there is a senior citizen taking your ID card and scanning it into the computer. Often there is a smirk on their wrinkled faces; perhaps amused by all of us young(er) fools for killing ourselves at the gym. Either that or our weight is shown on the computer screen.
The Wellness Center is quite large, with a section for free weights as well as an area for the Nautilus machines. Behind that are rows of equipment designed for a cardio workout. Whoever designed the workout room is a genius. All the treadmills, my choice as instrument of torture, are placed under a row of TV sets. They are all cleverly tuned to the most mind numbing shows known to mankind. You are then forced to run as fast as you can, reaching out to try, in vain, to push the off button on the TV. No matter how fast you run, you can never quite reach it. It’s like the carrot held out in front of a fat donkey pulling a cart.
It is cruel, yet affective.
When I ran in the 5K, there were a few folks who trailed me and had the privilege of watching my butt register a 5.7 on the Rictor Scale. I wasn’t too mortified because I knew I would never have to see them again after that day. However, the same can’t be said for the poor suckers who are in the row of elliptical machines behind my treadmill at the gym. I think that I recognize some of them snickering behind my back in the grocery store.
Don’t get me wrong, I think Jay Lo and I have it going on. Of course, Jay Lo has a lot less going on in other parts of her body than I do. Even so, I believe woman are meant to be soft and curvy, and I know for a fact that my husband, God bless him, would cry like a little girl if I lost my booty.
I do wonder though, if those people on the elliptical machines behind me have a craving for Jello after watching my jiggle. I’m expecting an endorsement check from the Jello Company any day now.
With all the physical fitness going on, there is something inevitable that happens while working out, and that’s sweating. I don’t mind perspiring so much; it’s all the other people sweating that gross me out. The gym provides anti-cootie wipes so that we may conscientiously clean off the Nautilus machines when we’re done sliming them. They are very effective at spreading your perspiration around evenly onto the equipment. So when you are lying down on the Abdominal Annihilator Apparatus, working on your 6 pack, you are in reality covering yourself in a strangers sweat. The last time this happened to me was in the late 80’s, and I was drunk, but I actually enjoyed myself. At least I think I did. I’m not sure, because I was drunk, and most of the 80’s are a blur.
Speaking of strangers, the YMCA attracts a myriad of humanity who are trying to get buff. The hunks that press metal in the free weight room offer more in the way of viewing pleasure than the brain-eroding programs on the TV. Also, a number of senior citizens make use of the Wellness Center. I think it’s great that they are still physically active in their advanced years. I just wish that a course in what is appropriate fitness attire was given when they got their membership. Most of them wear their everyday street clothes of brightly colored polyester suits with shiny white Rockports. Others do make an attempt at proper workout gear by wearing sweat pants 47 sizes too big. I know we all shrink a little when we age, but these grannies look like they did all their shrinking in one day. Come to think of it, I can deal with baggy sweats when the alternative is seeing Grampa in Spandex.
Some folks at the gym are such an example of human perfection that they look as if they lift weights in their sleep. Somehow though, their clothes are unwrinkled, they don’t have a hair out of place, and their makeup is unmussed. They look so fit, yet they tend to spend a lot of their time gabbing with the other Stepford wives, I mean, friends, instead of working out. When they actually do get on a treadmill, I watch and watch them, waiting for the time when one of them does something less then perfect, like fall off. I wonder if maybe one of them will slip and get their manicure stuck in the elliptical machine. It never happens.
More annoying then the Perfect People are the woman that are Uber thin. They are not quite anorexic, but close. I recognize them by the fact that their thighs are as wide as one of my arms, and that their cheekbones could cut paper. I want to grab these poor girls and yell, “For the love of God, just eat a cheese steak, will you?” But I don’t think that would go over to well in an establishment that is a proponent of health.
I’ve tried other forms of exercise before, such as Yoga. I quickly realized that the only part of it that I enjoyed was when I got to lie down between doing the difficult postures, or while meditating. For this reason, I do enjoy the recumbent bike, because you are so reclined, that I found out that if you set the level to 0, you can take a nap while doing your cardio workout.
Now that’s my idea of multitasking.
Another favorite of mine is the Abductor/Adductor machine. This handy device works the outer and inner thigh, a problem area for many ladies. While working these spots, apparently it is of paramount importance that you spread your legs open and then close them again in the most vulgar fashion possible.
It is the naughtiest of all the Nautilus machines.
I think that it would be fun to play some really raunchy porn music while using the Abductor/Adductor machine. It would weed out the light weights, and only those serious about getting fit would remain.
Who knows, it could become a spectator sport, somewhat like pole dancing. But I warn you; look away when Grandma climbs on.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Cartoon Creeps
CARTOON CREEPS
For those of us who have children, there is no avoiding the viewing of many of their cartoons. I’ve mentioned before, my concerns at what kind of messages advertisers are sending in commercials, and I am equally weirded out by the kind of role models these cartoon characters are for our kids.
One such show is called Caillou. First off, who names their kid Caillou and why is this 4 year old animated boy, bald? My son is 4 and he has hair, and so does all of his classmates, in fact I have never seen a child younger than 10 months old completely with out hair. The only explanation is that he has some horrible disease which causes hair loss in which case, it is one hell of a depressing cartoon.
The other oddity in this program is the fact that Caillou’s mom is always taking a nap. She’s often says, “Caillou, keep an eye on Rosie while I take a nap.” If I asked my 4 year old son, Donny, to watch his little cousin, God knows what I’d wake up to. The entire house, including his cousin, would be covered in magic marker, the refrigerator door would be open and my Lab, Shelby would be freebasing its contents, and Donny would stick his head in the toilet – again.
I also have a sneaking suspicion that Caillou’s mom is ‘taking a nap’ with their neighbor, Mr. Hinkle. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. It all makes sense when you find out that the show is produced in Canada. The creators were obviously sniffing maple syrup when they were writing the show.
Another new popular program that needs to be examined further, is Dora the Explorer. Dora speaks both Spanish and English and has an assortment of pals, one of which is Tico the Squirrel, who wears a kickin’ striped vest. I have a bad feeling that Tico is secretly a powerful Mexican drug lord, because whenever Dora is stranded and in need of a ride, there’s Tico with a tripped out car, motorcycle, speed boat, or even a helicopter. Now you tell me how a squirrel gets that kind of money. The average squirrel’s salary does not cover the cost of a helicopter. Yep, it has to be drug money.
There is an even more lurid possibility, though that comes to mind. I started noticing a twisted pattern in many of these animated characters in the new cartoons as well as the classic ones. They are all in a state of partial undress. Starting with Tico who has just a vest on, and on that same show, Boots the Monkey wears only boots, and Swiper the Fox has on a mask, gloves, and NOTHING ELSE!
Yogi Bear, Snagglepuss, Huckleberry Hound, Boo Boo, and Magilla Gorilla, all have on some combination of hat, scarf, collar and tie –AND THAT’S ALL! Even Donald Duck doesn’t wear pants. Oh God, and that pervert Secret Squirrel (yet another sicko squirrel) has a hat, mask…and trench coat –disgusting!
And what is the connection? They are all MALE, which brings me to my theory of why they are all half-clothed
I am convinced that they are all part of an animated version of the Chippendale, or should I say Chip N Dale, Dancers. On Saturday nights they perform for Penelope Pitstop, Daphne and Velma, Judy Jetson, Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble, and you just know that hussy, Caillou’s mom, is in the audience. I can just see Morrocco Mole now, in a cartoon version of The Full Monty, whipping off his Fez and covering up his mole bits with it, as he gyrates to the music.
I can’t say as I blame those animated ladies their naughty night out, really. After a day of solving a mystery, being in the Wacky Races, or even having to see Fred Flintstone naked, I wouldn’t mind a little beefcake show either.
And when the performance is over, they can all jump into Tico’s jet and fly off to Aruba.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
For those of us who have children, there is no avoiding the viewing of many of their cartoons. I’ve mentioned before, my concerns at what kind of messages advertisers are sending in commercials, and I am equally weirded out by the kind of role models these cartoon characters are for our kids.
One such show is called Caillou. First off, who names their kid Caillou and why is this 4 year old animated boy, bald? My son is 4 and he has hair, and so does all of his classmates, in fact I have never seen a child younger than 10 months old completely with out hair. The only explanation is that he has some horrible disease which causes hair loss in which case, it is one hell of a depressing cartoon.
The other oddity in this program is the fact that Caillou’s mom is always taking a nap. She’s often says, “Caillou, keep an eye on Rosie while I take a nap.” If I asked my 4 year old son, Donny, to watch his little cousin, God knows what I’d wake up to. The entire house, including his cousin, would be covered in magic marker, the refrigerator door would be open and my Lab, Shelby would be freebasing its contents, and Donny would stick his head in the toilet – again.
I also have a sneaking suspicion that Caillou’s mom is ‘taking a nap’ with their neighbor, Mr. Hinkle. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. It all makes sense when you find out that the show is produced in Canada. The creators were obviously sniffing maple syrup when they were writing the show.
Another new popular program that needs to be examined further, is Dora the Explorer. Dora speaks both Spanish and English and has an assortment of pals, one of which is Tico the Squirrel, who wears a kickin’ striped vest. I have a bad feeling that Tico is secretly a powerful Mexican drug lord, because whenever Dora is stranded and in need of a ride, there’s Tico with a tripped out car, motorcycle, speed boat, or even a helicopter. Now you tell me how a squirrel gets that kind of money. The average squirrel’s salary does not cover the cost of a helicopter. Yep, it has to be drug money.
There is an even more lurid possibility, though that comes to mind. I started noticing a twisted pattern in many of these animated characters in the new cartoons as well as the classic ones. They are all in a state of partial undress. Starting with Tico who has just a vest on, and on that same show, Boots the Monkey wears only boots, and Swiper the Fox has on a mask, gloves, and NOTHING ELSE!
Yogi Bear, Snagglepuss, Huckleberry Hound, Boo Boo, and Magilla Gorilla, all have on some combination of hat, scarf, collar and tie –AND THAT’S ALL! Even Donald Duck doesn’t wear pants. Oh God, and that pervert Secret Squirrel (yet another sicko squirrel) has a hat, mask…and trench coat –disgusting!
And what is the connection? They are all MALE, which brings me to my theory of why they are all half-clothed
I am convinced that they are all part of an animated version of the Chippendale, or should I say Chip N Dale, Dancers. On Saturday nights they perform for Penelope Pitstop, Daphne and Velma, Judy Jetson, Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble, and you just know that hussy, Caillou’s mom, is in the audience. I can just see Morrocco Mole now, in a cartoon version of The Full Monty, whipping off his Fez and covering up his mole bits with it, as he gyrates to the music.
I can’t say as I blame those animated ladies their naughty night out, really. After a day of solving a mystery, being in the Wacky Races, or even having to see Fred Flintstone naked, I wouldn’t mind a little beefcake show either.
And when the performance is over, they can all jump into Tico’s jet and fly off to Aruba.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Friday, February 5, 2010
Fist Bump Fury
Fist Bump Fury
There are a number of things in society today that confuse, perplex, and generally make me want to revoke my membership to humankind. I figured, or hoped, that I wasn’t the only one who felt such agida (Italian for; someone stole my pepperoni and I am MAD), over these matters, so I will share some of them with you.
First off, how does Donald Trump gets his hair to defy gravity, or more importantly, why? Clearly, he and Ted Koppel share the same hair care products which have such holding capabilities that Scientific experts should start a study on it immediately. The sheer stickiness of this wonderful gel could have major structural holding abilities. It could be used to hold together, houses, bridges, or even David Hasselhoff’s career.
Not everything that is happening today is all bad. Take, for example, how awesome Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are for their many altruistic deeds. Not only have they adopted all of the orphans of Somalia, but Brad has selflessly provided a home for a family of birds in his beard. They used to reside in Jouquin Phoenix’s beard, but he shaved, leaving them homeless, and Brad valiantly stepped up to the plate.
Nicole Kidman has also given of herself, by removing her eyebrows and letting two angry caterpillars live on her forehead. I believe she did this in order to take her mind off her first marriage to that short Wallaby named, Tom.
Of, course there are all the fashion faux pas happening in America that confuse me. I am referring to the UG (does this stand for ugly?) boots. We are expected to pay a month’s salary to look like we are setting off on a hunting trip with Jeremiah Johnson. Fortunately, for those that like the clodhopper look, there are so many affordable knock-offs, that resembling a Sasquatch can fit into anyone’s budget. However, since the inception of Ugs, the number of Big Foot sightings has quadrupled.
This brings me to one of the most perplexing of fashion weirdness. I refer, of course, to the saggy rapper pants. Here’s my theory of how it all came about. There was this guy named Bob, who lived in the city. One day Bob woke up late for the 10:00 showing of The David Hasselhoff film fest, which was playing at the local cinema. While rushing out the door, he mistakenly grabbed his brother’s (who happens to be an amateur Sumo wrestler) pants. Bob met his homies (urban lingo for pals) at the corner.
“Sh** Bob, what’s with your pants? I can see your drawers, man! Where’s your belt? You’re not even wearing any of your bling (more urban ling for shiny jewelry) !”
Bob played it cool and acted as if this was the look he was really going for. “You don’t know sh**, Steve. This is what everyone is wearing.”
The next day, every inner city youth in the tri state area was wearing baggy pants and showing off their drawers, except for Bob’s brother, because it’s hard for Sumo wrestlers to find baggy pants.
There is one more thing I need to mention. It’s about The Fist Bump. It annoys me beyond belief to begin with, but many don’t know about its strange origins. Howie Mandel started the fist bump because he has some sort of phobia or compulsive disorder, where he gets freaked out by shaking people’s hands, perhaps thinking that they are trying to steal his pinky ring. I don’t know, but isn’t it odd that we are using this poor guys hyper- phobic habit, and making it a national habit? What’s next? Will we all start indiscriminately making the rituals of other unfortunate folks with obsessive compulsive disorders our own? Will impulsive hand washing be all the rave, or will it now be cool to turn the lights on and off exactly 7 times whenever we leave a room? The thing I really fear is what will happen if Trichotillomania, the compulsive urge to pull out your eyebrow hair, becomes the latest trend. It would be disturbing if everyone did it, but then again, there would be a lot of angry caterpillars with homes, so that would be kinda nice.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
There are a number of things in society today that confuse, perplex, and generally make me want to revoke my membership to humankind. I figured, or hoped, that I wasn’t the only one who felt such agida (Italian for; someone stole my pepperoni and I am MAD), over these matters, so I will share some of them with you.
First off, how does Donald Trump gets his hair to defy gravity, or more importantly, why? Clearly, he and Ted Koppel share the same hair care products which have such holding capabilities that Scientific experts should start a study on it immediately. The sheer stickiness of this wonderful gel could have major structural holding abilities. It could be used to hold together, houses, bridges, or even David Hasselhoff’s career.
Not everything that is happening today is all bad. Take, for example, how awesome Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are for their many altruistic deeds. Not only have they adopted all of the orphans of Somalia, but Brad has selflessly provided a home for a family of birds in his beard. They used to reside in Jouquin Phoenix’s beard, but he shaved, leaving them homeless, and Brad valiantly stepped up to the plate.
Nicole Kidman has also given of herself, by removing her eyebrows and letting two angry caterpillars live on her forehead. I believe she did this in order to take her mind off her first marriage to that short Wallaby named, Tom.
Of, course there are all the fashion faux pas happening in America that confuse me. I am referring to the UG (does this stand for ugly?) boots. We are expected to pay a month’s salary to look like we are setting off on a hunting trip with Jeremiah Johnson. Fortunately, for those that like the clodhopper look, there are so many affordable knock-offs, that resembling a Sasquatch can fit into anyone’s budget. However, since the inception of Ugs, the number of Big Foot sightings has quadrupled.
This brings me to one of the most perplexing of fashion weirdness. I refer, of course, to the saggy rapper pants. Here’s my theory of how it all came about. There was this guy named Bob, who lived in the city. One day Bob woke up late for the 10:00 showing of The David Hasselhoff film fest, which was playing at the local cinema. While rushing out the door, he mistakenly grabbed his brother’s (who happens to be an amateur Sumo wrestler) pants. Bob met his homies (urban lingo for pals) at the corner.
“Sh** Bob, what’s with your pants? I can see your drawers, man! Where’s your belt? You’re not even wearing any of your bling (more urban ling for shiny jewelry) !”
Bob played it cool and acted as if this was the look he was really going for. “You don’t know sh**, Steve. This is what everyone is wearing.”
The next day, every inner city youth in the tri state area was wearing baggy pants and showing off their drawers, except for Bob’s brother, because it’s hard for Sumo wrestlers to find baggy pants.
There is one more thing I need to mention. It’s about The Fist Bump. It annoys me beyond belief to begin with, but many don’t know about its strange origins. Howie Mandel started the fist bump because he has some sort of phobia or compulsive disorder, where he gets freaked out by shaking people’s hands, perhaps thinking that they are trying to steal his pinky ring. I don’t know, but isn’t it odd that we are using this poor guys hyper- phobic habit, and making it a national habit? What’s next? Will we all start indiscriminately making the rituals of other unfortunate folks with obsessive compulsive disorders our own? Will impulsive hand washing be all the rave, or will it now be cool to turn the lights on and off exactly 7 times whenever we leave a room? The thing I really fear is what will happen if Trichotillomania, the compulsive urge to pull out your eyebrow hair, becomes the latest trend. It would be disturbing if everyone did it, but then again, there would be a lot of angry caterpillars with homes, so that would be kinda nice.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
How about Depends?
My apologies to those of you who have lost control of your bodily functions while reading my blog. Who would have thought how excited I would get when hearing the words, "I almost peed myself when I read your blog".
Thanks for all the encouragement, all the crossing of the legs, and even just the chuckles.
I should have something new later today or tomorrow.
Thanks for all the encouragement, all the crossing of the legs, and even just the chuckles.
I should have something new later today or tomorrow.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Motherhood AKA-Waitressing for Small People
Motherhood
AKA-Waitressing for Small People
By Christine Waldman
When I dreamt of having children, I thought of having sweet smelling, gurgling babies who looked just like me, but prettier, and hopefully smaller.
I knew that my level-headedness, love of kids, and years of babysitting experience would all be valuable attributes to possess when parenting. Little did I know that all I really needed was the talents I gained during my short stint as a waitress when I was 19.
It all started when my first child was able to say Ba-Ba, which is the universal infant word for bottle. I remember being so thrilled that my darling said something other than Ma-Ma or Da-Da. Shortly after, she said her first brilliant sentence, ‘Ma-Ma Ba-Ba’. I immediately rushed into the kitchen to fill that order.
Big mistake.
If only I knew what unrealistic precedent I was setting for future food orders. If only I knew that this would be just the first in a long line of menu requests to come, not only from her, but also her two siblings. If only I knew how unrelenting and constant those commands would become from my darlings, I would have set up some ground rules, or at least demanded to be tipped. The only tip I received from my little customer after that initial order, was some spit-up on my shoulder.
Now, 9 years later, I wish I had more practical experience at waitressing, because I am still no good at carrying more than 2 plates of chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese at a time. I also am constantly getting drink orders mixed up, much to the displeasure of my clientele.
“No mom, I wanted Lemonade. Donny was the one who asked for milk!” I won’t even get into the riot that ensues when the kitchen is out of a menu item.
The constant barrage of food demands is exhausting and the rudeness of my customers is disheartening. Even at the advanced ages of 9, 7, and 4, they are still lousy tippers. Like a food server’s worst nightmare, they also have the tendency to wait until I have delivered one order to then ask for something else.
The length of time it takes them to decide on what to eat is annoying as well. Peace treaties have been decided in less time. My 7 year old almost always wants a peanut butter sandwich, in fact she eats so much peanut butter that we fear she will soon start sporting a top hat, cane, and monocle.
The alternative is to let my children get the food for themselves. This unfortunately can have the potential of creating more work for me. When you ask a 7 year old to pour a drink for herself from a full pitcher of lemonade, you’re just asking for sticky floors.
That’s where ‘mom the maid’ comes in. If I’m not cooking and serving meals, I’m stooped over, picking up toys, looking like a suburban Quasimoto.
All I know is that God must be almighty, otherwise why would he make our kids so darn cute and precious to us. Honestly, who else would we do this for?
We do what we do, because we love them and some day, when we are old and feeble, the tables will be turned, and it will be our children who will be waiting on us, and perhaps even changing our diapers.
I don’t plan on leaving a tip.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
AKA-Waitressing for Small People
By Christine Waldman
When I dreamt of having children, I thought of having sweet smelling, gurgling babies who looked just like me, but prettier, and hopefully smaller.
I knew that my level-headedness, love of kids, and years of babysitting experience would all be valuable attributes to possess when parenting. Little did I know that all I really needed was the talents I gained during my short stint as a waitress when I was 19.
It all started when my first child was able to say Ba-Ba, which is the universal infant word for bottle. I remember being so thrilled that my darling said something other than Ma-Ma or Da-Da. Shortly after, she said her first brilliant sentence, ‘Ma-Ma Ba-Ba’. I immediately rushed into the kitchen to fill that order.
Big mistake.
If only I knew what unrealistic precedent I was setting for future food orders. If only I knew that this would be just the first in a long line of menu requests to come, not only from her, but also her two siblings. If only I knew how unrelenting and constant those commands would become from my darlings, I would have set up some ground rules, or at least demanded to be tipped. The only tip I received from my little customer after that initial order, was some spit-up on my shoulder.
Now, 9 years later, I wish I had more practical experience at waitressing, because I am still no good at carrying more than 2 plates of chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese at a time. I also am constantly getting drink orders mixed up, much to the displeasure of my clientele.
“No mom, I wanted Lemonade. Donny was the one who asked for milk!” I won’t even get into the riot that ensues when the kitchen is out of a menu item.
The constant barrage of food demands is exhausting and the rudeness of my customers is disheartening. Even at the advanced ages of 9, 7, and 4, they are still lousy tippers. Like a food server’s worst nightmare, they also have the tendency to wait until I have delivered one order to then ask for something else.
The length of time it takes them to decide on what to eat is annoying as well. Peace treaties have been decided in less time. My 7 year old almost always wants a peanut butter sandwich, in fact she eats so much peanut butter that we fear she will soon start sporting a top hat, cane, and monocle.
The alternative is to let my children get the food for themselves. This unfortunately can have the potential of creating more work for me. When you ask a 7 year old to pour a drink for herself from a full pitcher of lemonade, you’re just asking for sticky floors.
That’s where ‘mom the maid’ comes in. If I’m not cooking and serving meals, I’m stooped over, picking up toys, looking like a suburban Quasimoto.
All I know is that God must be almighty, otherwise why would he make our kids so darn cute and precious to us. Honestly, who else would we do this for?
We do what we do, because we love them and some day, when we are old and feeble, the tables will be turned, and it will be our children who will be waiting on us, and perhaps even changing our diapers.
I don’t plan on leaving a tip.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Cover Your Giblets
Cover Your Giblets
Many parents now days are concerned about the influence our children’s TV programs have on their developing minds. We wonder if a cartoon is violent, or if a girl on a tweeny sit-com is wearing a skirt that is too short, or even if a kid on a show is being smart-mouthed to their parents. These all could be a bad influence on our little ones.
What is passing under our radar is the disturbing trend in the bizarre behavior of many of our advertising icons. Many of them are from our own childhood and for some reason, we have never questioned their strange manners at all; for example the cuddly Pillsbury Dough Boy. Isn’t it a little concerning that he is harking products made from dough, when that’s what he’s made of? Wouldn’t this be considered cannibalism? He also has that creepy laugh whenever someone pokes him, almost like he’s enjoying it too much. I always change the channel when his commercial comes on, because I’m afraid his dough will start rising..
I’m also very worried about all the blatant substance abuse among cereal characters. The Cocoa Puff bird seems a little too high strung. Coo Coo for cocoa puffs or Coo Coo for coca leaves? You be the judge. And the Fruit Loops Toucan is so hopped up on sugar that I think that there is some misuse of dextrose going on there, for sure. Do we really want to give our children this cereal and have them act like crazed tropical birds all day, with their eyeballs spinning around in their heads? And what’s with that Lucky Charms Leprechaun always hoarding his marshmallow bits? I’ll tell you what it sounds like, it sounds like deviant junkie behavior to me. I also wonder why the Tricks cereal rabbit is constantly trying to steal the Tricks from those innocent children. Do we really want our kids to think it’s okay to have weirdoes skulking around ready to leap on them at any moment and grab their breakfast treats?
These characters need an intervention, and they need it fast. I hope there is a wing at the Betty Ford Clinic to care for them.
Another alarming trend is the unhealthy nature of some of these cartoon spokespeople. Cocoa pebbles is pushed by none other than Fred Flintstone. Fred doesn’t look like he has a long history of healthy eating, so why would we take any dietary advice from him? If eating Cocoa Pebbles makes Fred almost burst out of his leopard skin pelt, do we really want Little Johnny following suit? I think not. The same goes for The Pillsbury Dough boy (he’s just bad!), Chef Boyardi, and Orville Redenbacher. Orville’s problem is not obesity. Quite the opposite, actually. I don’t think that his emaciated appearance speaks well for the nutritional value of popcorn. Wait a minute, isn’t he dead? I rest my case.
Of course, some of those characters aren’t too unsavory, like Mr. Clean who is pretty hot with that shiny bald head (obviously buffed with a Mr. Clean product) and tight white T shirt. I would scrub my bathtub everyday if he was standing next to me with those beefy arms folded. I don’t even mind his freaky wooly eyebrows, which I think double as scouring pads. Maybe he’ll bring his pal from the Brawny paper towels ads along and we could have a real good time cleaning. Oh boy, I think I’ve inhaled too many cleaning products.
There are those characters representing a product that are meant to be funny or cute, but who I want to kick in the pants. Bush’s makes great baked beans, and you’ve all seen TV ads with the lovable Jay Bush and his rascally Irish Setter, Duke, right? I love dogs, but Duke is a real jerk. Here’s Jay, being a wonderful owner by feeding him, walking him, giving him a home. He has even turned down offers of selling Duke the Talking Dog to the circus sideshow, and how does Duke repay him? He is constantly trying to sell the family secret recipe. I personally think he is trying to make some cash to support his bad milk bone habit (another candidate for Betty Ford). If my dog were such a creep, he’d be heading to the vet’s for a little snip-snip.
But the most disconcerting product icon of all is The Jolly Green Giant. I have it on good authority that his real name is Bruce and he is the Hulk’s gay cousin. I mean, no heterosexual giant would ever be caught dead in a dress. To be fair, it is a fetching leafy off-the-shoulder number; with matching green slippers he borrowed form Peter Pan. But, my God, it’s so short that you can almost see his giblets.
I tell you who I really feel sorry for, and that’s the villagers who live in the Green Giants town. Image this, if you will. You are villager, let’s call you “Kevin”, and you are out for a stroll, when you see the Green giant.
“Hey Bruce, how’s it going?”
“Good, Kevin”, Bruce bellows, almost causing Kevin’s eardrums to burst. At this point Kevin is right under Bruce, and tilts his head back to look up at him.
“Ahh, Geez Bruce! Didn’t we make it clear at the last town meeting that you can’t go commando any more? Man, no one wants to see your Brussel Sprouts! And another thing, the next time that nature calls, can you go in the woods? You’re killing my rose bushes! Bruce, hey, what are you doing?...no …don’t …ahhhhhhhh!!!!!”
At which point the Green Giant stomps his size 47 green foot down on top of Kevin, making him resemble creamed corn.
The Green Giant clearly has some anger issues, which is not surprising since he is related to the Hulk.
HO HO HO, Green Giant.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Many parents now days are concerned about the influence our children’s TV programs have on their developing minds. We wonder if a cartoon is violent, or if a girl on a tweeny sit-com is wearing a skirt that is too short, or even if a kid on a show is being smart-mouthed to their parents. These all could be a bad influence on our little ones.
What is passing under our radar is the disturbing trend in the bizarre behavior of many of our advertising icons. Many of them are from our own childhood and for some reason, we have never questioned their strange manners at all; for example the cuddly Pillsbury Dough Boy. Isn’t it a little concerning that he is harking products made from dough, when that’s what he’s made of? Wouldn’t this be considered cannibalism? He also has that creepy laugh whenever someone pokes him, almost like he’s enjoying it too much. I always change the channel when his commercial comes on, because I’m afraid his dough will start rising..
I’m also very worried about all the blatant substance abuse among cereal characters. The Cocoa Puff bird seems a little too high strung. Coo Coo for cocoa puffs or Coo Coo for coca leaves? You be the judge. And the Fruit Loops Toucan is so hopped up on sugar that I think that there is some misuse of dextrose going on there, for sure. Do we really want to give our children this cereal and have them act like crazed tropical birds all day, with their eyeballs spinning around in their heads? And what’s with that Lucky Charms Leprechaun always hoarding his marshmallow bits? I’ll tell you what it sounds like, it sounds like deviant junkie behavior to me. I also wonder why the Tricks cereal rabbit is constantly trying to steal the Tricks from those innocent children. Do we really want our kids to think it’s okay to have weirdoes skulking around ready to leap on them at any moment and grab their breakfast treats?
These characters need an intervention, and they need it fast. I hope there is a wing at the Betty Ford Clinic to care for them.
Another alarming trend is the unhealthy nature of some of these cartoon spokespeople. Cocoa pebbles is pushed by none other than Fred Flintstone. Fred doesn’t look like he has a long history of healthy eating, so why would we take any dietary advice from him? If eating Cocoa Pebbles makes Fred almost burst out of his leopard skin pelt, do we really want Little Johnny following suit? I think not. The same goes for The Pillsbury Dough boy (he’s just bad!), Chef Boyardi, and Orville Redenbacher. Orville’s problem is not obesity. Quite the opposite, actually. I don’t think that his emaciated appearance speaks well for the nutritional value of popcorn. Wait a minute, isn’t he dead? I rest my case.
Of course, some of those characters aren’t too unsavory, like Mr. Clean who is pretty hot with that shiny bald head (obviously buffed with a Mr. Clean product) and tight white T shirt. I would scrub my bathtub everyday if he was standing next to me with those beefy arms folded. I don’t even mind his freaky wooly eyebrows, which I think double as scouring pads. Maybe he’ll bring his pal from the Brawny paper towels ads along and we could have a real good time cleaning. Oh boy, I think I’ve inhaled too many cleaning products.
There are those characters representing a product that are meant to be funny or cute, but who I want to kick in the pants. Bush’s makes great baked beans, and you’ve all seen TV ads with the lovable Jay Bush and his rascally Irish Setter, Duke, right? I love dogs, but Duke is a real jerk. Here’s Jay, being a wonderful owner by feeding him, walking him, giving him a home. He has even turned down offers of selling Duke the Talking Dog to the circus sideshow, and how does Duke repay him? He is constantly trying to sell the family secret recipe. I personally think he is trying to make some cash to support his bad milk bone habit (another candidate for Betty Ford). If my dog were such a creep, he’d be heading to the vet’s for a little snip-snip.
But the most disconcerting product icon of all is The Jolly Green Giant. I have it on good authority that his real name is Bruce and he is the Hulk’s gay cousin. I mean, no heterosexual giant would ever be caught dead in a dress. To be fair, it is a fetching leafy off-the-shoulder number; with matching green slippers he borrowed form Peter Pan. But, my God, it’s so short that you can almost see his giblets.
I tell you who I really feel sorry for, and that’s the villagers who live in the Green Giants town. Image this, if you will. You are villager, let’s call you “Kevin”, and you are out for a stroll, when you see the Green giant.
“Hey Bruce, how’s it going?”
“Good, Kevin”, Bruce bellows, almost causing Kevin’s eardrums to burst. At this point Kevin is right under Bruce, and tilts his head back to look up at him.
“Ahh, Geez Bruce! Didn’t we make it clear at the last town meeting that you can’t go commando any more? Man, no one wants to see your Brussel Sprouts! And another thing, the next time that nature calls, can you go in the woods? You’re killing my rose bushes! Bruce, hey, what are you doing?...no …don’t …ahhhhhhhh!!!!!”
At which point the Green Giant stomps his size 47 green foot down on top of Kevin, making him resemble creamed corn.
The Green Giant clearly has some anger issues, which is not surprising since he is related to the Hulk.
HO HO HO, Green Giant.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Monday, January 25, 2010
Purse Pitfalls
Here's another piece I wrote. Enjoy.
Purse Pitfalls
Am I the only one who feels like a failure-all because I cleaned out my purse? Let me explain.
As a busy mother of 3 small children, and to be honest, not ever a neat nick, my pocket book has a tendency to not only serve as a portable filing cabinet, but also a trash can. The result is chaos in my clutch, and so many lost opportunities; with hard to find flyers, coupons, and news letters that end up buried at the bottom of my bag.
.There are coupons crammed down into the crevices, covered with mysterious crumbs, most likely from a half-eaten snack from my 4 yr old son. These are the same coupons that I can never find while standing in line at the grocery store. Some days I wonder if they have some sort of cloaking device, that their secret desire is not to be redeemed, but to live their life covered in crumbs at the bottom of my purse. Okay, so I probably watch too much Sci-Fi, but I swear they are not there when I need them, but when I shovel out my purse, there they are, mocking me. Man, the money I could have saved, if only I were more organized.
Also forgotten in the depths, I come across flyers and brochures for various cool places to take my kids. The kind of venues that will be sure to culturally enhance their little minds, perhaps even spark an interest so much, that it could lead them someday to greatness. When they are an adult and have a sparkling career in Astrophysics, they’ll come to me and say, “Remember Mom, when you took me to that museum? If I hadn’t gone there and gotten that early look at all that cool stuff, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”
But, because of my muddled, middle-aged mind, I forgot I had stuffed those flyers into my bag. So now, my kids will probably have sparkling careers as Men’s or Ladies room attendants, all because I’m a slob. (No offense to people who are Men’s or Ladies room attendants, I’m sure they’re lovely folks who are just trying to earn a paycheck. But, honestly, would you rather your child grow up to be a Scientist or someone who hands out towels in a toilet all day?)
I pull out a crumpled mass that used to be a brochure for some sort of life altering opportunity. There are the remains of a lollipop stuck to it, and the date has already passed, so I throw it away. Talk about missed opportunities, I am so bummed out whenever I find any fuzzy M&Ms rolling around at the bottom of my purse. It is so sad that they have been deprived of their purpose in life, which is to be eaten by me.
Of course, along with the educational pamphlets for the kiddies, in the deepest corner, way, way at the bottom of my pocket book, are the schedules for classes at the gym. Again, all those dates have long since passed me by. Maybe if I had immediately taken those schedules out of my bag and posted them on the fridge, I would now be svelte. Well, maybe not svelte. I would settle for my curvaceous pre-child bearing form. Okay, so it was less curvy and perhaps even pear-shaped, but that beats my current form which is more …yam-shaped.
I often rationalize that I am at least getting an upper body workout lugging my heavy bag around, but the problem with that delusion is that it’s hard to see all that definition under my layers of fat.
All those lost chances of saving money, enriching my children’s lives, and being a buff mom, are lost to the pit that is my purse. So, what is the remedy? Maybe a smaller satchel, so I’m forced to go through and dig out more often? I’ve tried that and it doesn’t seem to work. All those papers have a way of pushing other important stuff out, like my keys or wallet.
When I have so much stuffed in my purse, that it is overflowing, I know I have to empty it out. With a plastic grocery bag at my side for trash, I rummage through each compartment, throwing out most of what’s in there. It’s weird how the contents of a regular size purse can somehow fill a garbage bag. There is some strange space altering phenomenon going on here. Now we’re talking Sci-Fi.
The ironic part of it all is that I usually keep all the stuff I need, like keys, cell phone, and money in my pocket, so I don’t even really need a purse. Honestly, the only time it comes in handy is when I am sneaking food into the movie theater. Although my pocketbook is really to blame for all those lost opportunities, in the long run it has saved me hundreds of dollars I would have spent on movie theater snacks.
So why do I carry a purse, you might ask? Well, because my friend bought the really cool purple swirly patterned one I have now. It’s from Sri Lanka, or Tibet, or Tehran- I can’t remember exactly where, but somewhere exotic. Everyone notices it and comments on it and asks where I got it from. When I tell them, “Yes, it is cool isn’t it? It’s from Turkistan” I hope they will think I actually went there just to purchase it, and therefore am way cooler than I really am. The purse also has multi-colored fuzzy balls hanging on the sides, and people often like to play with them. Okay, there is some disturbing Freudian thing going on there that is better off left unexamined. I think we should move on.
So in conclusion, my pocketbook’s only purpose is for smuggling contraband and because it gives me an air of mystery. The heck with the fact that it was probably made by toddlers from a third world country or that it masks all the missed chances of inspiring my child into greatness. It’s really, really, pretty, and I like it. How depressing. I think I’ll go rummage through my purse for some M&Ms now.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Purse Pitfalls
Am I the only one who feels like a failure-all because I cleaned out my purse? Let me explain.
As a busy mother of 3 small children, and to be honest, not ever a neat nick, my pocket book has a tendency to not only serve as a portable filing cabinet, but also a trash can. The result is chaos in my clutch, and so many lost opportunities; with hard to find flyers, coupons, and news letters that end up buried at the bottom of my bag.
.There are coupons crammed down into the crevices, covered with mysterious crumbs, most likely from a half-eaten snack from my 4 yr old son. These are the same coupons that I can never find while standing in line at the grocery store. Some days I wonder if they have some sort of cloaking device, that their secret desire is not to be redeemed, but to live their life covered in crumbs at the bottom of my purse. Okay, so I probably watch too much Sci-Fi, but I swear they are not there when I need them, but when I shovel out my purse, there they are, mocking me. Man, the money I could have saved, if only I were more organized.
Also forgotten in the depths, I come across flyers and brochures for various cool places to take my kids. The kind of venues that will be sure to culturally enhance their little minds, perhaps even spark an interest so much, that it could lead them someday to greatness. When they are an adult and have a sparkling career in Astrophysics, they’ll come to me and say, “Remember Mom, when you took me to that museum? If I hadn’t gone there and gotten that early look at all that cool stuff, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”
But, because of my muddled, middle-aged mind, I forgot I had stuffed those flyers into my bag. So now, my kids will probably have sparkling careers as Men’s or Ladies room attendants, all because I’m a slob. (No offense to people who are Men’s or Ladies room attendants, I’m sure they’re lovely folks who are just trying to earn a paycheck. But, honestly, would you rather your child grow up to be a Scientist or someone who hands out towels in a toilet all day?)
I pull out a crumpled mass that used to be a brochure for some sort of life altering opportunity. There are the remains of a lollipop stuck to it, and the date has already passed, so I throw it away. Talk about missed opportunities, I am so bummed out whenever I find any fuzzy M&Ms rolling around at the bottom of my purse. It is so sad that they have been deprived of their purpose in life, which is to be eaten by me.
Of course, along with the educational pamphlets for the kiddies, in the deepest corner, way, way at the bottom of my pocket book, are the schedules for classes at the gym. Again, all those dates have long since passed me by. Maybe if I had immediately taken those schedules out of my bag and posted them on the fridge, I would now be svelte. Well, maybe not svelte. I would settle for my curvaceous pre-child bearing form. Okay, so it was less curvy and perhaps even pear-shaped, but that beats my current form which is more …yam-shaped.
I often rationalize that I am at least getting an upper body workout lugging my heavy bag around, but the problem with that delusion is that it’s hard to see all that definition under my layers of fat.
All those lost chances of saving money, enriching my children’s lives, and being a buff mom, are lost to the pit that is my purse. So, what is the remedy? Maybe a smaller satchel, so I’m forced to go through and dig out more often? I’ve tried that and it doesn’t seem to work. All those papers have a way of pushing other important stuff out, like my keys or wallet.
When I have so much stuffed in my purse, that it is overflowing, I know I have to empty it out. With a plastic grocery bag at my side for trash, I rummage through each compartment, throwing out most of what’s in there. It’s weird how the contents of a regular size purse can somehow fill a garbage bag. There is some strange space altering phenomenon going on here. Now we’re talking Sci-Fi.
The ironic part of it all is that I usually keep all the stuff I need, like keys, cell phone, and money in my pocket, so I don’t even really need a purse. Honestly, the only time it comes in handy is when I am sneaking food into the movie theater. Although my pocketbook is really to blame for all those lost opportunities, in the long run it has saved me hundreds of dollars I would have spent on movie theater snacks.
So why do I carry a purse, you might ask? Well, because my friend bought the really cool purple swirly patterned one I have now. It’s from Sri Lanka, or Tibet, or Tehran- I can’t remember exactly where, but somewhere exotic. Everyone notices it and comments on it and asks where I got it from. When I tell them, “Yes, it is cool isn’t it? It’s from Turkistan” I hope they will think I actually went there just to purchase it, and therefore am way cooler than I really am. The purse also has multi-colored fuzzy balls hanging on the sides, and people often like to play with them. Okay, there is some disturbing Freudian thing going on there that is better off left unexamined. I think we should move on.
So in conclusion, my pocketbook’s only purpose is for smuggling contraband and because it gives me an air of mystery. The heck with the fact that it was probably made by toddlers from a third world country or that it masks all the missed chances of inspiring my child into greatness. It’s really, really, pretty, and I like it. How depressing. I think I’ll go rummage through my purse for some M&Ms now.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Saturday, January 23, 2010
5 K Fun
5K Fun
by Christine Waldman
I would be the first to admit that I am a woman built more for comfort than speed. That’s why I received many astonished looks from friends when I told them about the 5K race I would be running. I had not lost my mind nor wasI prone to subject my self to extreme forms of torture. I was doing it for my 9 year old daughter who wanted me to be her running buddy for her Girls on the Run race.
Since the event was over two months away when I first heard of it, I figured that would give me ample time to get into shape, or as it turned out, stuff my face and gain another 10 pounds with which to lug around on race day.
My daughter’s coaches assured me that I didn’t really need to be able to run, that I could walk and my daughter could run ahead and then run back to me throughout the race, somewhat like an over eager Golden Retriever.
The day arrived and run\walking in 35 degree weather was really the last thing I wanted to do. I had dressed in 47 layers of clothes, forgetting to take into account that I might actually need to bend at the knees.
For my daughters sake, I attempted to have a better attitude and tried to channel my inner Gazelle. Unfortunately, my inner Gazelle was more like a lumbering Rhinoceros, but I was determined to give it my best.
The race leaders started things off with stretches and calisthenics to warm everyone up right before the race. According to leading race officials and Sports medicine Authorities, doing the Macarena is the best way to avoid a Hamstring pull. I’ve heard this same philosophy applies to bike racing and even Lance Armstrong does the Macarena and the Funky Chicken before the Tour de France.
By the time we had done the Macarena, I was so hot and exhausted that I was ready for a nap. Unfortunately, that was when they started the race and we were up and running, or in my case, lumbering. In about 2.5 seconds my daughter, who had begged me to be her race buddy, took off leaving me in the dust, and started running up ahead with my Gazelle-like friend.
I had two goals in mind; #1-was not to come in last and #2-not to suffer a myocardial infarction, in which case I would definitely come in last, but would not be as humiliated because I would be dead and too busy floating above my body noticing how fat I looked in sweatpants.
I had walked around 1\2 a mile, or 10,000,000 centimeters, and had 10 people behind me. I was keeping an even keel with a woman a few years older and at least 15 pounds heavier than me, when my competitiveness kicked in.
I started jogging so I could outdistance the other woman. Well, jogging is a strong word, it was more like a fast shuffle, but it did get me ahead of her. I tried not to worry that those 11 people were all witnessing the sight of my butt in jog mode. Hopefully, I would never see them again.
I was sufficiently ahead, so I slowed my shuffle back to trudging speed so I could catch my breath. I went around a sharp turn, when suddenly the woman was in front of me! She cheated by cutting across the shortest point in the turn.
That was so not fair. I was mad that she took a short cut and messed up my plan to beat her, but most of all I was ticked off that I hadn’t thought of it first!
So now I had to run (think zombie with a Charlie Horse) past her again. Keep in mind that I had gone only 1 mile or 20,000,000 millimeters by now.
The next mile I did a fast walk, constantly looking behind me, in the manner of an extremely paranoid escaped convict, keeping an eye on my competition. I was feeling good, I had one more mile to go, I wasn’t last, and I wasn’t having a heart attack.
The race path led us into the woods and back out again on the same route. This meant that everyone ahead of you would pass by. I was given many pitying looks and words of encouragement from all those gazelles, including my daughter, who acknowledged me with a small wave. I somehow refrained from tripping her.
Some of the supportive remarks were things like; you can do it!, you’re almost there, and do you need CPR?
What seemed like 5 hours later, I did finally reach the turn around spot in the woods and was giving it all I had. At this point I was not lumbering as much as lurching forward. The racing guides were starting to break down the race markers, taking down signs and leisurely walking back to the finish line. No one else was coming towards me and when I looked back, there were only 5 people behind me and none of them were my nemesis. Man, she did it again! She somehow managed to get out in front.
The people that I was beating consisted of a woman with her daughter, who had twisted her ankle, and 3 very fit looking folks who could easily pass me at any moment. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion that they were waiting until I was 50 feet from the finish line to do just that.
It was time to put on the steam and run. I zeroed in on another chubby mom in front of me and left her in my dust. The finish line was within sight now, and that’s when I hit the wall and couldn’t run anymore. The girl with the sprained ankle and her mother passed me, but I was just being gracious.
The last 30 feet I gave it what little I had left, and sprinted across the finish line. Later I saw a picture of me crossing the line, and I looked like I was standing still.
I am proud to say that I was not last, 5 people finished after me, and I had successfully ran (shuffled) in a 5 K (100,000,000,000 decameters) race without soiling my pants.
They were giving out free soup, pretzels, and hot chocolate for the participants, but by the time I got there, it was all gone. I looked over and my nemesis was just finishing her soup and hot chocolate and placing it in the trash.
I realized then that although cheaters never win, they can still get the last bowl of soup.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
by Christine Waldman
I would be the first to admit that I am a woman built more for comfort than speed. That’s why I received many astonished looks from friends when I told them about the 5K race I would be running. I had not lost my mind nor wasI prone to subject my self to extreme forms of torture. I was doing it for my 9 year old daughter who wanted me to be her running buddy for her Girls on the Run race.
Since the event was over two months away when I first heard of it, I figured that would give me ample time to get into shape, or as it turned out, stuff my face and gain another 10 pounds with which to lug around on race day.
My daughter’s coaches assured me that I didn’t really need to be able to run, that I could walk and my daughter could run ahead and then run back to me throughout the race, somewhat like an over eager Golden Retriever.
The day arrived and run\walking in 35 degree weather was really the last thing I wanted to do. I had dressed in 47 layers of clothes, forgetting to take into account that I might actually need to bend at the knees.
For my daughters sake, I attempted to have a better attitude and tried to channel my inner Gazelle. Unfortunately, my inner Gazelle was more like a lumbering Rhinoceros, but I was determined to give it my best.
The race leaders started things off with stretches and calisthenics to warm everyone up right before the race. According to leading race officials and Sports medicine Authorities, doing the Macarena is the best way to avoid a Hamstring pull. I’ve heard this same philosophy applies to bike racing and even Lance Armstrong does the Macarena and the Funky Chicken before the Tour de France.
By the time we had done the Macarena, I was so hot and exhausted that I was ready for a nap. Unfortunately, that was when they started the race and we were up and running, or in my case, lumbering. In about 2.5 seconds my daughter, who had begged me to be her race buddy, took off leaving me in the dust, and started running up ahead with my Gazelle-like friend.
I had two goals in mind; #1-was not to come in last and #2-not to suffer a myocardial infarction, in which case I would definitely come in last, but would not be as humiliated because I would be dead and too busy floating above my body noticing how fat I looked in sweatpants.
I had walked around 1\2 a mile, or 10,000,000 centimeters, and had 10 people behind me. I was keeping an even keel with a woman a few years older and at least 15 pounds heavier than me, when my competitiveness kicked in.
I started jogging so I could outdistance the other woman. Well, jogging is a strong word, it was more like a fast shuffle, but it did get me ahead of her. I tried not to worry that those 11 people were all witnessing the sight of my butt in jog mode. Hopefully, I would never see them again.
I was sufficiently ahead, so I slowed my shuffle back to trudging speed so I could catch my breath. I went around a sharp turn, when suddenly the woman was in front of me! She cheated by cutting across the shortest point in the turn.
That was so not fair. I was mad that she took a short cut and messed up my plan to beat her, but most of all I was ticked off that I hadn’t thought of it first!
So now I had to run (think zombie with a Charlie Horse) past her again. Keep in mind that I had gone only 1 mile or 20,000,000 millimeters by now.
The next mile I did a fast walk, constantly looking behind me, in the manner of an extremely paranoid escaped convict, keeping an eye on my competition. I was feeling good, I had one more mile to go, I wasn’t last, and I wasn’t having a heart attack.
The race path led us into the woods and back out again on the same route. This meant that everyone ahead of you would pass by. I was given many pitying looks and words of encouragement from all those gazelles, including my daughter, who acknowledged me with a small wave. I somehow refrained from tripping her.
Some of the supportive remarks were things like; you can do it!, you’re almost there, and do you need CPR?
What seemed like 5 hours later, I did finally reach the turn around spot in the woods and was giving it all I had. At this point I was not lumbering as much as lurching forward. The racing guides were starting to break down the race markers, taking down signs and leisurely walking back to the finish line. No one else was coming towards me and when I looked back, there were only 5 people behind me and none of them were my nemesis. Man, she did it again! She somehow managed to get out in front.
The people that I was beating consisted of a woman with her daughter, who had twisted her ankle, and 3 very fit looking folks who could easily pass me at any moment. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion that they were waiting until I was 50 feet from the finish line to do just that.
It was time to put on the steam and run. I zeroed in on another chubby mom in front of me and left her in my dust. The finish line was within sight now, and that’s when I hit the wall and couldn’t run anymore. The girl with the sprained ankle and her mother passed me, but I was just being gracious.
The last 30 feet I gave it what little I had left, and sprinted across the finish line. Later I saw a picture of me crossing the line, and I looked like I was standing still.
I am proud to say that I was not last, 5 people finished after me, and I had successfully ran (shuffled) in a 5 K (100,000,000,000 decameters) race without soiling my pants.
They were giving out free soup, pretzels, and hot chocolate for the participants, but by the time I got there, it was all gone. I looked over and my nemesis was just finishing her soup and hot chocolate and placing it in the trash.
I realized then that although cheaters never win, they can still get the last bowl of soup.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Hello Everyone
Hello All,
This is my first blog experience, so please promise to be gentle with me. My purpose in blogging is to give my friends and family a laugh, hopefully. Even if it means laughing at me and not with me, have at it.
My second purpose is to post some of my ramblings, writing experiments, and thoughts for the day. Also, some of you have expressed an intrest in the book I have written, Meg O'Brien Wears a Thong, so I want to eventually post the first chapter, which is much easier than printing out copies for all you unsuspecting fools, um I mean friends.
This is my first blog experience, so please promise to be gentle with me. My purpose in blogging is to give my friends and family a laugh, hopefully. Even if it means laughing at me and not with me, have at it.
My second purpose is to post some of my ramblings, writing experiments, and thoughts for the day. Also, some of you have expressed an intrest in the book I have written, Meg O'Brien Wears a Thong, so I want to eventually post the first chapter, which is much easier than printing out copies for all you unsuspecting fools, um I mean friends.
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