Call Me “Mom”

I found this post in my draft folder.  I wrote it quite a while ago.  I find it amusing now that it’s almost Mother’s Day, so I thought I’d share.  Happy Mother’s Day to all you moms out there.

I was talking to a friend the other day and the topic of college came up.  I admitted that although I’ve attended numerous schools and have switched majors about six times (not an exaggeration), I still do not hold a degree.  She looked at me like I was bat-shit crazy.  I have a lot of theories as to why I never finish, but not so much why I keep changing my mind about what to study.

I keep coming back to one central concept: I don’t want to work.

I know that sounds lazy, but it’s not.  I DO work.  I have worked incredibly hard and enjoyed it.  I have also done the most mundane tasks and enjoyed the crap out of those too.  I have earned my own living to support my family.  I definitely can work.  I just don’t want to do things that I don’t like and once I stop liking something, I’m pretty much done.  Then it’s time to move on.

There is one thing that I have done that I’ve always loved, always strived to be my best, always tried to be perfect and of which I am most critical.  It’s my longest running job to date and the one thing to which I sincerely wish I could devote all of my time and energy.

I’m a mom.

That’s it.  That’s all I’ve ever wanted and I could classify everything else as being either a hobby or an inconvenient necessity.

I love staying home, sweeping floors, doing laundry, baking cookies.  Nothing makes me happier than afternoons by the pool or playground, hearing “Mom, watch this!” a hundred thousand times while re-reading the same page of my book over and over again.

I don’t want to be a lady of leisure.  Being a mom is damn hard work!  I would definitely like to have “hobby jobs” to get out of the house, talk to grown-ups and do something I like.  A career?  No.  That’s really, honestly and truly not me.

But yeah…that’s it.  They don’t teach “MOM” in school, so that’s why I’ve never landed on my thing.  After my kids have gone off to school and their own lives, I think I’ll go back too.  I’ll learn how to do yet something else.  In the meantime, I’ll enjoy being Mom.

Starting Over

So this is it.

I’m going to take the plunge and do what I’ve been thinking about for the past five or six years.  I’m going to actually write about myself and all the screwed up crap that has made me who I am today.  The difference between this time and previous attempts, is that now it will all be coming from a good place.  I’m not depressed, pitying myself or angry anymore.  It all is what it is and I can’t change any of it.

What I can do is write about it and hope that by doing so I help myself grow and find peace.  I also hope that some of my stories will resonate with others and help them find peace.  At the very least, I hope they know that they are not alone. Because truly, that is the one thing that saved my life – knowing that while I may be unique, my struggles are not.  I can survive them and be happy.

No worries.  I’ll still be writing about all the funny things too.  After all, there is always more than one side to a story.

So welcome.  This is my story.

What’s the secret password?

I am so tired of having to have complicated passwords.  Why do I have to have one capital letter and one number for the password to my grocery store account?  If that actually got hacked, what is at risk?  My penchant for SmartOnes frozen lunches?  OMG, they may steal my gas points!!  I mean…seriously?  That’s the worst that’s going to happen.

Years ago, I tried to simplify my life and create three levels of passwords for online activity.  I had one simple password for all my non-critical interactions; one more complicated password for email, etc.; and one very cryptic password exclusively for my bank account.  Then shit got complicated and websites started putting more demands on me.  The problem is that their level of importance didn’t fit into my nice, neat password boxes.  So, I met the criteria by capitalizing the first letter and adding a number at the end.  Problem solved, right?

Not even close.

They added punctuation.

Sigh.

Okay, so I added a random punctuation mark in the middle of my now capitalized password with the number at the end.

At this point, I’m up to about 85 passwords to remember – my email password, my bank account password and 83 variations of the cheap, useless password, which were supposed to be easy to remember.  Okay, I can do that.

New problem.  They don’t tell you what the password format is for each individual website.  This starts a whole game of “guess which fucking password you used the last time you shopped at Target.com you dipshit you”.

Username: Shenanigans@hootmail.com – OK.

Password:

“sparkle” – NO

“Sparkle” – NO

“Sparkle9” – NO

“Sp@rkle9” – NO!

DAMMIT!!!  RESET PASSWORD!!

Secret answer:BiteMe!

New Password:

“sparkle”You cannot re-use a previous password.

“Sparkle”You cannot re-use a previous password.

“Sparkle9” – You cannot re-use a previous password.

“Sp@rkle9”You cannot re-use a previous password.

FINE!!!

“Sp@rkle98”Password has been changed.

Username:

Grrrrr………Didn’t I already tell you this?

Shenanigans@hootmail.com

Password:

Oh. My. God.  Seriously????

At this point, I throw my phone.  Because of course, I was trying to do all this on a teeny-tiny touchscreen and I now not only need a break, but also an Advil and a very strong drink…at 10 a.m.

And then I get a text message from my kid.

“Mom I’m out of lunch money.  Can you put some on my account?  I’m going to lunch now.”

*sigh*

www.kidzlunchmoney.com

Username:

Shit.

P.S.  The thing that I failed include in this entry is all the times that I ran through the 82 possible password variations, clicked on the link for my “forgotten password” reminder and discover that I simply had a typo the very first time.

P.P.S – I also failed to mention all the times that I forgot my username, because your username can’t be your real name, email address or anything that you could even remotely identify with.

P.P.P.S. – Oh, I forgot to mention the variations of my secret question because of a phase I went through where I got tired of trying to answer secret questions and just answered everything “blue”.  This regularly has me screaming at the computer “YES THAT IS THE NAME OF THE STREET WHERE I GREW UP!! YOU DON’T KNOW ME MOTHERFUCKER!!” “Oh, sorry…it’s “blue”.

P.P.P.P.S. – This doesn’t even begin to cover my work email, where you have to change the password every six months.

P.P.P.P.P.S. – Or my husband’s accounts.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. – Or my kids.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. –  I need a nap.

 

 

Mayonnaise is Not a Vegetable

I got tired of listening to the hubster complain about how I make our son’s lunch, but not his.  So, this morning I made his lunch. Hubster came in the kitchen just as I was finishing.

Me: “Mustard okay on your sandwich?”

Him: “Nooo!  Mayoooh!  Who the hell puts mustard on turkey!?”

Me: “I thought you did.  Okay, I’ll take it off.”

Him: “YOU CAN’T TAKE IT OFF!  YOU’LL WASTE HALF OF IT!”

Me: “Yes I can…see?”  (Scraping mustard off the cheese)  “I only wasted one piece of bread.  You’re good.”

Him: (muttering) “Mustard on turkey…that’s just wrong………..”…blah blah blah….

 

Then this afternoon, I got a text message:

Him: “Where the hell is my dessert?!?!?!”

Me: “You got yogurt.  You ate all the cookies.”

Him: “That was my fruit.”

Me: “Yogurt can be fruit and dessert.”

Him: “Yogurt is fruit dammit!”

Me: “And dessert.  Yogurt and pudding would be redundant.”

Him: “The hell you say!”

Me: “Tomorrow you can have blueberries and pudding.”

Him: “I hate you.”

 

I figure another few days of this and he’ll be demanding to make his own lunch.  :)

If Marriage is a Contact Sport, Where’s the Referee?

A few years back, there was a short-lived television show called “The Marriage Ref”.  Produced by Jerry Seinfeld and hosted by Tom Pappa, it featured a panel of celebs (mostly comedians) who would listen to couples’ ongoing gripes and choose which partner was right.  Then there would be a winner for the “most right” of the evening and that couple would win a trip.  It didn’t last long, but I really liked the show.

My question is, why isn’t’ this a real thing?  I mean, take away the t.v. cameras and maybe the panel of celebs (that’s a maybe), and this could be not only a very lucrative career, but also a very important service to married people everywhere!

Now, before you all go getting started on “marriage isn’t about who’s right or wrong…blah blah blah” save it.  OF COURSE it matters who’s right!  Marriage is about surviving the day and not killing one another.  Period.  If you’re lucky, in the end you’re old and sitting in rocking chairs, looking at one another somewhat affectionately and without either of you having major dents in the head or visible scars.

Just think of the possibilities if this was a real person, without all the commitment of marriage counseling or therapy.  I mean, pfffft…they never tell you who’s right anyway.  They just make you examine your “feelings”.  I HATE FEELINGS!  I WANT TO BE RIGHT!

Can’t stand beans in the chili?  MARRIAGE REF!

Sick of the snoring/teeth grinding/ sleeping with(out) the tv on?  MARRIAGE REF!!

Want to start a nuclear war every time you find socks left on the couch?   M-A-R-R-I-A-G-E–R-E-F!!!!

Because, seriously….without someone impartial to tell you that you’re wrong and that you’re lucky the love of your life hasn’t taken a cast iron skillet to your head in your sleep yet…HOW WILL YOU EVER KNOW!?

Right now, I can see my married friends nodding and thinking “You know what, Robin…YOU’RE RIGHT!”  And that’s exactly why there was never a show called “The Friendship Ref”.  Because with your friends, you’re always right.  And if not…there’s always wine.  Image

Who?

The other day, I found my 13 year-old son in the garage, painting and listening to music on the radio.   He’s always been into classic rock, but like many kids, has no idea about the names of the groups or their significance.  What followed was…well… pretty much what you’d expect.

Oh, you’re listening to The Who!

The what?

No, The Who.

Huh?

The group you’re listening to.  They’re called The Who.

The what?

The Who!  The band!  The band is called The Who!

I don’t get it.

Never mind.

I guess I should just be glad he has good taste in music.  Heaven help me if he discovers The Band.

Dear Geico, e-Trade and AT&T

You’ve ruined commercials.  Because of the Hump Day Camel, E-Trade Baby and those hilarious Kids in the Discussion Group, I can’t stand other advertisements.  

If I can’t stand other advertisements, I won’t buy products.  

If I don’t buy products, my kids won’t have clothes.  

If my kids don’t have clothes, they’ll get kicked out of school.  

Please don’t make my kids get kicked out of school.  

 

I really need to get out more.