Tall Curly Biscuit

Dear readers,

This month is our one-year blog anniversary! Even if you and I got in touch well after last fall, we can backdate it in our minds because I’m not sure that anyone cares. Eat some cake anyway! I choose a big piece of butter cake with chocolate frosting and lots of vanilla ice cream. What about you?

Unfortunately I’m gonna have to eat imaginary cake because I’m kind of on a diet, and I’ve already had my daily allotment of peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip cookie dough. I’m on a food plan that was customized for me, by me. It’s not really working all that well.

Our first blogiversary. Can you believe it?

A lot of things have happened over the past year:

• My husband and I have had lots of good laughs over your funny comments and blogs.
• Dried organic goji berries. Try ‘em.
• I’ve taken a really awesome editing job at Movable Media (in spite of this blog, not because of it).
• I finally painted my kitchen table. Sewing bedroom curtains?  Eh, that’s another story.
• Bangs.
• The Twitter. (Over 1,100 followers, and most speak English!)
• I went from hating Brussels sprouts to roasting large quantities with sea salt every week. My children are least happy about this change.

Don’t be jealous of my thrilling activities and barely mediocre success over the past year. My kids still think I’m embarrassing.

Thank you for all your support and love through comments, Facebook likes, Twitter follows, and shoutouts in person. I’ve also met lots of cool bloggers online who I fully intend on latching onto like a toddler on the leg if we ever end up at a blogging conference together. I stalk a few additional bloggers because they make me laugh, and, although they do not know I exist or chose to ignore me, I’ll add ‘em to my shout out list anyway.

These friends and stalking victims include but are not limited to:

Robin at Hollow Tree Ventures (I wish we were related and she were forced to spend holidays with me.)
My aunt Jeanie, President of the TCB fan club (She IS forced to spend holidays with me.)
Nicole at Ninja Mom Blog
Jamie at Six Oak Street
The Possum Posse music and blog
Alistair at Scaryduck (He does not acknowledge my existence, but I stalk him.)
Roo at Nice Girl Notes
DJ at Thoughts from Paris
Kim at One Classy Motha
Paige at There’s More Where That Came From
Perry at Nouveau Old
Amanda at Parenting by Dummies
Jen at Jeneral Insanity
Leslie at The Bearded Iris (The ellipsis article changed my professional life.)
Susan at Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva
Ramsay at Trinity Pest Management (Don’t ask.)
Jenny at TheBloggess (Thanks for the tear-producing laughs and for taking my money each month.)

What would you like to see this blog do over the next year? Step it up to moderate success instead of mediocre? Would you at least like the Brussels sprouts recipe?

This young generation of singing and dancing pre-Madonnas was really cute until NOW. It’s gone too far. They really don’t even know who Madonna is. I’m starting to be embarrassed for them.

American Idol is coming up on its 11^th season. The X Factor, Dancing with the Stars, The Voice, America’s Got Talent, Glee, Nashville, Smash, and So You Think You Can Dance dominate our tv stations. High School Musical will be etched into my substance forever, especially that part where Vanessa Hudgens sings “TROYYYYYY” to the top of her lungs during Zac Efron’s basketball game. I was like, You’re making a scene!

Even all the talk show hosts have goofy dance-offs at the beginning of every show. YouTube stars can achieve celebrity status overnight. My kids’ favorite show is iCarly, which is about teens who run a successful internet show. The digitally connected have a 24-hour voice on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and blogs. Everyone’s a star!

I write this as I sit at guitar and voice lessons for one kid, and the other is probably playing with his green screen, camera, and video editing software. I was onboard with this singing and dancing entertainment culture; it’s cheerful and optimistic. It’s all anyone under 15 years old even knows. Half of my kids’ friends are starring in theatrical performances every weekend; the other half is in show choir. These children have not heard of grunge; they know not its understated and melancholy ways. But I was okay with that—even happy about it—until now.

I think the song and dance culture is affecting this generation in ways we can’t even comprehend yet. The ramifications are severe. Flannel shirts are at risk of extinction. Guitar music is losing out in favor of trumpets; some pop songs even include the whole brass section. Kenny G. is almost cool again. Mine eyes have been burned by the lights reflecting off the sequins.

This all hit me like a theatrical slap to the face when I read an article about gangs. Cops are now tracking gangs on Facebook because even criminals want their moment in the limelight. Gang members post status updates on their latest heists. But get this: The name of one of the most feared gangs in Brooklyn is Rockstarz. Yes, Rockstarz. What do they steal—glitter? iTunes gift cards? Hair styling cream and extensions? Lacey gloves? They probably even bully people online. (Can you believe that’s a real thing?)

I just want to laugh at them. I bet they even wear skinny jeans. Does that hamper their ability to get away? How do they jump a fence while wearing low, tight jeans, in a Euro color like red?

I’m so embarrassed for them. Our youth have gone soft. Their young, fleshy, unscarred organic muffin tops spill out over their bamboo fabric skinny jeans, and they are no help to us, unless we need somebody to write a jingle or act in a play. And then the play would probably be about actors and producers and YouTube stars. Or Rockstarz.

They pander for our attention.

But me, I would never do that. Just kidding, I totally would. Also please sign up for our new gang, the Hooliganz. An online sign up sheet will be going out soon (cc’ing the cops on that) and everyone needs to learn our song and hand jive dance number before we go jack some people up.

TROYYYYYYY!    Facebook   Twitter   Pinterest

I’m not sure where I currently rank on the official class warfare scale that somebody seems to keep track of, although I’m holding out hope that the $1.27 I earn per month from Google Ads will pick up pace. As a kid, I usually felt rich enough because I was happy. My family had everything we needed and more; we had lots of fun, and I’ve never been hungry.

Fact: Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies expand in your stomach to coat every corner with trans fats, so I was always full.

***Disclaimer: My mother is a fantastic cook, and she’ll be ticked if I make it sound like we only ate Little Debbies. I just like to make fun of how much I used to love them. Carry on***

There were times when I thought we were absolutely loaded. If my mom bought me a new outfit or two, AND we went to Funland with friends, AND we hit the Chinese buffet with the family…oh my gosh. We were RICH!

And there were times I felt poor. It didn’t happen often, but I specifically remember the disappointment when my mom refused to buy ACT Fluoride Rinse with the super cool self-measuring dispenser. She bought it once and then never again. I don’t know why she wouldn’t get it—maybe I splashed it everywhere and it was a real pain—but I must have thought that she wouldn’t buy it because it was too expensive. Maybe she said I didn’t need it; it was an extra. Poor little me. All the rich kids like on tv shows probably had ACT, but not me.

I’m sure there are things that I do or don’t do that make my kids feel poor. Someday in the future they’ll probably complain about how I would never spring for individually packaged snack crackers.

My underprivileged children have to bag their own pretzels. Such drudgery, and these containers barely fit in her Vera Bradley backpack.

So, now that I’m grown up, you know what one of the highlights of my day is? Every morning and night, after I’ve been a good girl and brushed my teeth properly, I get to squeeze that space-age bottle of ACT, listen to the slurp as the excess mouthwash automatically goes back in, turn the whole bottle upside down while only the pre-measured amount comes out (thrills me every time!), and swish that sweet liquid around my mouth. Sometimes I swirl it around in there for 5 or 10 minutes while I put laundry away or something. Just like Scrooge McDuck swims in his gold coins, my teeth soak in the top-shelf fluoride.

I always keep two bottles on hand at home. I’ve also got one at my parents’ house and one at my in-laws’ so I can enjoy ACT in all its self-measuring glory with minimal travel interruptions.

Scientists are still studying this miracle of modern engineering.

So you can imagine my dismay today when my local store did not have it in a self-measuring dispenser. They only had ACT in a normal bottle, which is no fun at all. I immediately emailed the company with a note to “Please respond ASAP!” Within one hour they assured me that they are still manufacturing it in the self-measuring dispenser. (It’s from their email that I know it’s called a self-measuring dispenser; otherwise I’d be referring to it as that thingamabob on top.)

Thank goodness I can continue to buy my fluoride treat with the Mr. Gadget top and feel like a rich girl! I mean, I don’t even look at the price before I put it in my basket. If they didn’t have ACT the way I like it, I might have been forced to do something more drastic, like buying individually wrapped snacks, opening them all, and mixing them in a bowl together. And then maybe I would swim in those snack crackers.

I’m glad we can share feelings like this.

Last weekend I had to take an online personality test. I’m on the board of a volunteer organization, and the president requested that all of us fill one out because it has something to do with our next meeting. I guess it says something about my personality that I stayed home on a Friday night to do this kind of stuff.

It didn’t take very long because I flew through all the questions. I had to decide if each statement was very like me, somewhat like me, neutral, not like me, or very not like me.  Since they were all repetitive and I was in a hurry, I only marked something as a “very” if something specific stuck out in my memory.

For instance, for all the questions that basically asked if I thought a lot about decisions, weighed pros and cons, or was a careful person, I marked “very.” I answered that way because I immediately thought about how I’ve debated over paint options for my kitchen table for months now.

And I’m super careful; some might even use the word paranoid. I remembered how a couple of weeks ago we went out to a remote state park to get away from the city lights and see the stars. My husband was out of town so the kids and I went with a friend and her family. Since I was in the role of “preparer for the wilderness” I gathered up all the necessary supplies one would need when stargazing on the open prairie: blankets, bug spray, Dr. Pepper, popcorn, Twizzlers, and a very large kitchen knife.

Like my children, you may be wondering why we needed a huge kitchen knife.  It was for protection against snakes and robbers, duh. I grew up across from Rattlesnake Hill and once had a scary encounter with a knife-wielding hoodlum in a city park, so I knew we couldn’t go out unarmed.

I could even imagine myself stepping on a rattlesnake’s head on our adventure. Then a kid would fetch the knife out of the car, and I’d cut that snake’s head clean off. I’d be the hero, and my friend would just be standing there shaking and know that she was indebted to me forever. And all the world would know of my glory.

240 repetitive questions later, I got the results of the personality test. It said that my number one strength was my judgment. I was like, “heck, yeah!” I make one good decision after another, and that’s why my life isn’t in the toilet like all those people on reality tv.

I gloated in my superior wisdom and safety consciousness until I remembered the other part about the stargazing adventure: I completely forgot to bring flashlights or money. But I brought the knife. I wasn’t prepared for reality at all, unless that reality involved criminals or poisonous snakes. My brain was filled with dreams of Twizzlers and slashings, and I forgot all else.

This made me question the whole legitimacy of any survey that would tell me I had good judgment. Of course anyone with poor judgment probably thinks their skills are the best, or they wouldn’t keep making the same decisions. The entire premise of the survey must be flawed.

I told my husband about this, and he noted that the survey did not necessarily tell me that I had good judgment—just that I used lots of it no matter how poor it may be.

Phew! What a relief! Everything is okay with the survey.

AND, I found out my brain is like the Walmart of decisions: I feature quantity over quality.*

*I’ll be out next week due to an expected case of lead and nickel poisoning.

Hello, Dear Readers!

Today I get to participate in a fun activity started and run by the super hilarious blogger Ninja Mom. It’s the Character Assassination Carousel, where writers make fun of children’s books! Woohoo!

I’m inspired by a paper I found in my son’s backpack last year — he created a fake book jacket for one of his school novels, Watership Down. It’s classic heroic fantasy novel about rabbits, so of course he hated it.

He wrote these reviews:

“The worst jumble of words to ever be barfed onto paper.” –The New York Times Book Review

“Fine, the book’s great. Just put the gun down!” –Scholastic Publishers

Have you ever dreaded reading that book to your child? Perhaps it’s an extra long and detailed account of Cinderella, and, although you love spending time with your little one, you can only think about how you really need to take a dump and want to play Words with Friends, maybe even at the same time.

Other times your child wants a story with such an annoying character that you’d rather the book disappear forever.

My book nemesis is Junie B. Jones. Junie B. is supposed to be funny, but sometimes I want to lock her in a closet.

Junie B. makes me cringe.

She’s mean to other kids, so I want to be mean to her. Or laugh at her and join in with making fun of the other kids — I’m not sure. Just another reason I’m not a teacher. Junie B. does not bring out the best in me. She calls kids names, talks about how she can beat them up, and says rude and sassy things to everyone, including adults. I’m not sure if I love her or hate her.

But worst of all, she uses terrible grammar. Every time we used to read a Junie B. Jones book, I had to stop every 5 lines or so to correct her grammar. Here’s an example of Junie’s narration: “Then she quick handed me the jar. And she runned right out of the room.”

Arrghh! My kids were already disadvantaged when it came to spelling because we lived in the deep and dirty south — around people with heavy accents — for quite a while. When my daughter entered kindergarten, she thought that “thing” was spelled “thang” because that’s how she pronounced it. It was cute, but I could just imagine her college essay: “I want to contribute to the research center of this university science department more than anythang.” I didn’t need my impressionable children saying “runned” too. (My computer’s spell checker is about to have a heart attack.)

Junie B. is funny, but she lets her freak flag fly high. In Junie B. Jones Smells Something Fishy, she can’t decide what to bring for her class Pet Day. At her family’s suggestions, she considers ants and worms but finally decides on the perfect pet: a fish stick. Yes, a breaded, frozen fish stick was her pet for Pet Day. That’s strange, and I think she needs a private school for either geniuses or special ed. I’m not sure about that girl.

This makes more sense when you read about the author — she’s odd. In an author interview on Amazon.com, Barbara Park discussed her most recent picture book. Here’s how she describes the book:

“It’s called, MA! There’s Nothing to Do Here! It’s about a baby in utero who is bored out of his mind…The idea for it was born (so to speak) when my daughter-in-law, Renee, invited me to my first grandson’s ultrasound…On the way out of the doctor’s office, I remember thinking, Okay, so now we’re all going back to our busy lives. But the baby is still in there just floating around. Except for an occasional kick or hiccup, he’s got absolutely nothing to do.”

You can’t make this stuff up, folks. When I read about that picture book, I quick runned in the opposite direction.

Just kidding, Barbara! It sounds great. Just put the gun down.

Read more in the Character Assassination Carousel! Last week: Bethany at Bad Parenting Moments ridicules The Rainbow Fish. Coming next week: Domestic Goddess at The Underachiever’s Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess.