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
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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
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