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
Sunday, July 11, 2010
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
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