Elf on a M'Fing Shelf

Can I just start this post with one big SIIIGGGHHHH?  That’s me exhaling great disappointment in myself.  I...oh man....how do I admit this?  Yesterday, I went to Target and I...um....I...I BOUGHT THE DAMN ELF ON A SHELF, OKAY?  You people....all you PEOPLE with your little ELVES with names like Tingles and Joy and Snowball...I couldn’t take the PRESSURE anymore of my Offspring asking me, badgering me, with their sad, little, pathetic eyes...why don’t WE have an Elf on a Shelf?  And instead of giving them my honest answer of-”Because Mommy is lazy and can barely remember to put chocolate in the Advent Calendar every night  so how can She be expected to move a money-sucking little Elf around each night, and, also, I think you should just be able to BELIEVE in Santa without any extra stimulation because you are a LITTLE KID and that’s what LITTLE KIDS do...blindly believe in Santa”...I told them something to the effect of-”I’M the Elf on the Shelf and I should be the only motivation you need to have good behavior because me and Santa are likethis.”  That worked last year.  This year...not so much.  It seemed as if every house I entered, there was this little Elf staring deep into my soul, pleading with me, begging me, asking me the question...Why?  Why am I, this cute little Elf, so bad?  Why can’t you bring your Children the joy and magic they deserve?  WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?  And, trust me, there are only so many times that you can have an imaginary conversation with an un-living thing before you crack.  

But that is not all.

No.  No it is not.

As I strolled into Target, spending my obligatory $1.95 first on a coffee, I must have had a lost look on my face because a Friendly, Well-Meaning Employee actually stopped me and asked me if I needed help finding something.  Me? Help finding something  in TARGET?  Um...yes...uh...actually I do.  Do you guys sell, um....you know, the, ahem... Elf on a Shelf?  She swiftly moved me along, telling me that why YES, of course they do, actually they have them in three different spots in the store and she took me to the first and there it was.  Except...wait...it’s a GIRL elf?  I didn’t even know they made those!  And then she asked me...did you want a boy or a girl?  And I looked at her, my eyes panicked at the thought of Son losing his shit over a GIRL Elf and asking me 68 questions about why all his friends got a boy and he got a girl and then I thought of how Daughter wouldn’t care if it was a boy or a girl and GOOD GOD YES LADY TAKE ME TO THE BOY ELVES!  And then, I hung my head in shame as she directed me to the back of the store.  Et, tu, Gelato Mama?  Giving in to the sexist ways of our society?  AN ELF ON THE SHELF AND REFUSAL TO BUY GIRL?  Who am I?  Some days I don’t even know anymore.  SIIIGGGHHHH.  

So.  There you have it.  Boy Elf on Motherf*#%*ing Shelf.  Currently, he is perched on a lamp where the Children will notice him when they get home from school, but can’t touch him because WE DON’T WANT TO RUIN THE MAGIC.

Which.

I admit.

It probably will be pretty magical to see their faces light up at the sight of their new friend.

But after that...it’s just going to be a pain in the ass.

Brightly Lit Dressing Rooms

Okay.  I mean.  Why?  You know what I’m talking about.  Why do dressing rooms have florescent lights?  This makes no sense to me. Who is in charge of this?  Is it somebody’s idea of a joke?  Not only do you have to go jean shopping today, you get to do it in a small room bright with unflattering light!  Oh, those pants feel a little tight?  Well, to make you feel even BETTER about yourself, we’ve gone ahead and put special lighting in here to highlight those unfortunate stretch marks your Firstborn inflicted upon you while in-utero, and juuusstt in case you are all like, these are my Warrior Marks, not Stretch Marks, that doesn’t explain how your lower abdomen slightly resembles a burrito when you bend over, so just go ahead and get a better view of that.  And OH!!  We’ve also gone ahead and installed this dressing room with TWO mirrors...one BEHIND you, so when you’re like, trying on bathing suits, you can get a goooood look at your ass in these florescent lights.  I mean, they say almost every woman has cellulite, but in case you thought maybe you didn’t, YOU WERE WRONG.  And there it is in all it’s glory.  BWHAAAA!!!!  

You would think that maybe it’s just the Targets of the world with badly lit dressing rooms.  But no. Nope.  Bra shopping at Nordstroms?  Yep.  Go ahead and take your shirt off and let a nice lady feel you up while staring at the bra strap fat in terrible lighting.  Or that time I went to JCrew looking for a pair of shorts and instead left crying and more convinced than ever that I should just not wear shorts.  Ever.  (Side note-Do you think Michelle Obama ever left JCrew crying?)  And I realize that maybe this...aversion...I have to Brightly Lit Dressing Rooms says more about my insecurities and body dysmorphia, but, still, would it kill retails stores to put in a nice, dim light?  Or just one that doesn’t make me feel like I’m in a line up?   Think how much better bathing suit shopping would be if they put in a skinny mirror and a 55 watt lightbulb?  Damn, I might even buy two bathing suits then!  I might want to try them all on because LOOK HOW GOOD I LOOK IN THIS LIGHT!!  And when you think about it that way, really, who can say that I am doing anything except trying to boost retail sales to improve our economy?  We don’t need women leaving dressing rooms crying!  We need them leaving full of confidence and empty wallets!  THIS IS FOR YOU, AMERICA!

You’re welcome.

Really Skinny People

The thing about living in an area of the country where people are ultra-obsessed with carbs and protein and bones protruding through their bodies is that you easily lose sight of what is “normal.”  As you can imagine, when one is surrounded by professional volleyball players and wannabe swimsuit models, it is quite easy to develop a complex and/or psychological issues.  And you know, damn it!  I’m tired of feeling fat all the time because all these Really Skinny People just can’t bring it down a notch.  Good God, what is this desire to be less than zero?  I will never, ever be a Really Skinny Person and I don’t even want to be, so why am I always feeling so bad about myself because my ass can fill out my jeans?  So, in order to try and put a stop, at least a temporary one, to my feelings of inadequacy, I’ve composed a couple of lists to remind me that Really Skinny People might be really skinny, but they are also maybe just a teensy weensy, little tiny bit crazy.

Really Skinny People have many fears.  Among them:

Sugar

Bread

Gluten 
Calories
Bread
Missed workouts
Spin class being cancelled
Bread
Going from a size 2 to a size 4.  (Fat ass.)
Running out of kale
Bread

Really Skinny People also have many obsessions.  Among them:

Whole Foods
Coconuts
Organic coconuts
Coconut water
Coconut milk
Coconut oil
Calories
Kale
Whole Foods
Coconuts

(I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these Really Skinny People survive on coconut alone.)

Also, on a somewhat related side note: I’ve recently decided that I can’t be friends with anyone who wants to get a chicken in their backyard so they can have fresh eggs. I don’t want to not like you, but you’re making it hard with this Urban Chicken Coop thing. 

I just...can’t...jump on board of the Really Skinny People ship.  It’s too consuming. So, I’m going to try and forgive myself for my imperfections and maybe even try to enjoy them.  So, go ahead and get back to your kale smoothies.  I’m going to go have an ice cream cone with my kids.

Teenagers Drinking Coffee/Almond Milk/Waiting in Line

Sometimes I feel like I don’t even need to explain things...like Teenagers Drinking Coffee should really be enough for someone to read and say, Oh yes...that is totally annoying, but if for some reason you’re all...what?  Why is it annoying for teenagers to drink coffee?...I’ll share.

First of all, Teenagers: please stop trying to be all grown up and stuff.  Trust me...you have the rest of your life to be Grown.  I still feel like an insecure 16 year old who is not nearly Grown, but for the sake of my Children, I need to appear that I’m Grown and like...know how to do stuff.  Drinking coffee makes you look like you want to be Grown, but really, just stop drinking coffee and go outside and play with your friends.  You’ll thank me later.

Second of all, this makes me angry because of the giggles I am forced to listen to as seven 15 year old girls, dressed alarmingly hipster prostitutes, order  frapuccinos with no whipped cream, followed by the 27 minutes I have to wait while the sole barista makes the said frappucinos.  Because you know what?  All I want is a cup of coffee.  I don’t even want a latte or a mocha.  And no, I do not want anything with soy or almond milk because, although I don’t necessarily have anything against soy beans or almonds, I just don’t want to sound like an asshole when I order coffee.  I just want coffee.  In a cup.  I’ll add the cream myself.  Cream from a cow.  When did dairy become the devil?  When did almonds step up and be all, Oh, Dairy...I am now the new Superior Milk in the Land?  Also, I think Starbucks should have a special line for people like me.    All the frappucino and soy chai almond tea people can stand in one line and the people who take approximately 17 seconds to order, receive and pay for their coffee can stand in another line? Wouldn’t that make the world a better place?  Everybody wins.  Again, you can thank me later.

And while we’re at it, Teenage Girls?  Put some damn clothes on.  Your worth and value in this life are so much more than your booty shorts.  Think about it.  (And your Mother let you wear that?  Oh wait...she’s wearing the same thing.  You might be screwed.)

Things That Make Me Angry: Take 1

MEAL PLANNING

I’m pretty sure you just shuddered when you read that.  And if you read ‘Meal Planning’ and a shiver didn’t go up and down your spine, then you have no idea how much I envy you.  I will happily shop for the food.  I will happily cook the food.  I do not mind cleaning up the food.  But, oh my God, if you could only know how much time a Mother’s Brain is thinking about FOOD and what’s for dinner, and what’s going in lunch boxes and who gets what snack and we had apples for lunch should we have grapes for dinner...you just might be nicer to her.  Does your brain sound like mine?  See below.  

The Thought Process of the Meal Planner: 

Okay.  This week. Let’s see.  I could make that, but we just had it last week, but it’s so easy and Picky Eater won’t protest too greatly.  But Good Eater requested this and why shouldn’t she be rewarded for not having a mental breakdown when a vegetable is presented on her plate?  Okay, so we’ll have that tonight and Picky Eater can just deal with his shit.  Then tomorrow, let’s see, I could make that, but I really don’t want to eat all those carbs, but I know everyone will eat that and Husband will probably be really happy about it so I guess I could just put my part over lettuce because lettuce is the new bread and I’ll just be jealous of everyone else at the table.  Let’s see...next night...hmmm...I could make that, no...just had that.  How about this?  Oh God, I would rather stab my ears with a fork than listen to the complaining about serving that for dinner.  Oh...what about this?  That sounds delicious and healthy and somewhat kid friendly...oh wait Husband doesn’t like sweet potatoes.  But why should I care if He doesn’t like them?  Why can’t I just have some fucking sweet potatoes once in a while?  I’m just going to do it.  I’m going to make that.  Okay....so....let’s see.  What’s next?  Okay...um...what can I make...let me think...anyone have any requests?  No?  Okay, um...I could do...um...something new? Yes! Something new.  Let’s see.  Let me thumb through this cookbook.  Oooo...that looks good, except Picky Eater...oh Good Lord he would eat absolutely none of that.  Ohhh....yum...I could make that...if I wanted to be rewarded with whining.  Oh, how about this?  Yes...that looks good.  Good Eater will probably eat that, Husband should like that, Picky Eater will...um...shit.

Fuck it.  We’re having pizza.

And repeat.  Day after day...week after week...for, apparently, THE REST OF MY LIFE.

Dear Lego

Does anyone else want to tell Lego to suck it?  Anyone?  I mean, really, I can’t be the only one who has experienced the painful whine of a child who’s Recently Put Together Over Priced Random Lego Set slips from his hands and crashes to the floor and falls apart in a way that a NASA engineer might have a hard time putting back together.  I can’t be the only parent who has proclaimed a sick sense of victory after finding an impossibly small piece of plastic shaped like some sort of weapon stuck in a sofa cushion just TO MAKE THE CRIES STOP.  And, please, I know I am not alone in the joy I feel when I may or may not accidentally vacuum up what may or may not be little Lego nun chucks.  Hey-I’m not the one who deserted them in the carpet.  It’s like you WANT me to destroy them. 

But recently, I got to thinking that hey...maybe these Lego Executives don’t know that people want them to suck it and just need a little feedback.  I mean, clearly, these people have no children and hate mothers, why would they even have an inkling that many people consider them the devil?  So, in the name of fairness, I have composed a letter to alert them of this fact.  

Dear Lego,
Well, aren’t you just so clever?  You know, back in the day I used to really like you, Lego.  A big box of colorful bricks just waiting for my endless childhood imagination to build magnificent masterpieces all of my own creation?  Heaven.  But that wasn’t enough for you, was it?  No no no.  You had to go and get all greedy.  You had to go ahead take over the world with your Harry Potter/Star Wars/Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles/Lord of the Rings/Lone Ranger Lego sets.  Even THAT wasn’t enough for you.  Oh no no no.  You THEN had to go ahead and CREATE TELEVISION SHOWS whose sole purpose is to SELL LEGO SETS.  I know you probably think you must be absolute geniuses to have thought of such a thing, but the truth is, you are going to Hell.  But it will be a special Hell, designed just Lego Executives.  In this Hell, you will rotate from one Lego Created Painful Experience to the next.  Here are some examples.

ONE: Standing in the Lego aisle at Target surrounded by tired, hungry Children unable to function as Normal Human Beings because Mean Mommy refuses to even entertain the idea of purchasing an $80 Legends of Chima Craggers Command Ship, hence- you have ruined their lives forever.

TWO: Standing in a room full of Children who’s Lego sets keep accidentally crashing to the floor, breaking into 327 pieces.  I think you know what happens next.  

THREE: Listening to two children fight over who gets to be ‘Ninjago’s’ Jay and who gets to be Kai.  This may not sound terrible, but don’t worry...it will be.  

FOUR: Losing eyesight while trying to find miniature Lego handcuffs that have lost themselves in a tub of let’s say....3567 other Lego pieces.  Good luck.

FIVE: Trying to figure out which step a Child missed exactly in the 400 page guide to Wakz’ Pack Tracker.  Was it step 8?  Step 98?  Step 47?  The only way you will ever know is to Start.Over.Again.  For eternity.

You don’t have to go to this Hell, Lego.  You can just...stop.  Stop.  Please, for the love God, stop.  It’s enough.  We get it.  You can turn this back around!  Just create moderately priced colorful bricks and let the Children take over!  I swear...their own creations are far more interesting than your Special Lego Sets will ever be because they did it on their own.  

That’s all I got, Lego.  I will now retreat back into my own special hell called: “DON’T TOUCH MY LEGO BATTLE SCENE IN THE PLAYROOM!”  I think I’ll just go ahead and close the door and pretend that it’s not happening.  

Sincerely, 
Gelato Mama

Four Letter Words

Let me go ahead and start out by saying that if you find muttering four letter words under your breath around your Offspring and/or maybe sometimes flipping them off behind their backs offensive, you should just stop reading this now.  Go ahead and have yourself a nice, curse-free day.  But...if you’re like me and often think to yourself, wow...my Children really bring out the F-bombing in me, then keep reading and maybe we should consider being Best Friends.  Now, if you DO find this offensive and are STILL reading, then I take no responsibility for your choice and think maybe you should lighten up a little and that you might be lying about the words you may or may not be muttering under your breath or thinking in your head during the more...trying times of child rearing.

Being a parent demands an enormous amount of patience.  It requires you to actually be an adult and remain an adult even as the most obvious solution to a six year old child throwing a tantrum better suited for a two year old child seems like it should be to also throw a tantrum.  All day your Children are testing you...daring you even...to just come on down to my level, Mom.  Come on.  Come down here and act like a total asshole with me.  It’s fun.  But...you can’t.  I’m the Adult, you repeat to yourself.  I am in charge. I must remain calm.  I am the Parent.  Oh, shit.  I’M THE PARENT.  So when you joyfully proclaim to your Offspring that it is time to go to Target and this announcement is met not with a Sure, Mom...I’ll get my shoes on...but with a Physical Collapse on the floor followed by a long soliloquy  about how their lives are so UNFAIR that they have to run ERRANDS and why are you so MEAN, you must, as a Parent, explain to them that it is summer and the majority of their days are spent playing and if they like to wipe their butts with toilet paper and drink those delicious yogurts they like so much, a trip to Target is necessary and I’m not asking you, I’m telling you, that it is time to get your shoes on and Get.In.The.Car.  

When clearly, what you really want to say is: Shut the hell up.  Get your damn shoes on.  And get in the fucking car.  And buckle the fuck up. 

But you can’t.

Because, as a Parent, you have to use Gentle, Firm Mom voice.  And surely, Gentle, Firm Mom Voice would disapprove of the truck driver living inside your brain.  Sometimes that Truck Driver wants to get out, but you have to keep him down....way way down...but just for fun, let’s explore what Truck Driver would say in daily, somewhat frustrating situations in the life of a Parent.

What I’m saying in Gentle, Firm Mom Voice:
Get out of the car please...come on guys...let’s get a move on.
Truck Driver:
Fucking seriously get out of the fucking car. I could have brokered a fucking peace treaty by the time it has taken you to slowly, tortuously, slide your body out of the damn car.

What I am saying in GFMV:
You know what, guys?  I’m not really in the mood to be jumped on right now.  Let’s find something else to do that doesn’t involve Mama breaking a rib.
Truck Driver:
Get.The.Fuck.Off.Of.Me.  I gave both of you my BOOBS for twelve fucking months.  Would it kill you to give me some PERSONAL FUCKING SPACE ALREADY?

What I am saying in GFMV:
Yes.  That’s what we’re having for dinner.  Eat it or be hungry.  Your choice.
Truck Driver:
MAYBE IF YOU LIKED TO EAT MORE THAN TWO FUCKING THINGS YOU WOULD NOT COMPLAIN ABOUT DINNER EVERY FUCKING NIGHT.

What I am saying in GFMV:
I’m sorry that you think you’re not tired, but it’s time for bed and you may not come out of this room again.  Good night.  I love you.
Truck Driver:
We just spent every possible damn second together today and now I need to have a very large glass of wine on the sofa and watch some terrible fucking television.  Good fucking night.  Go the fuck to sleep.  And I fucking love you so fucking much it makes my heart fucking hurt.

Of course, the most important reason to not speak to your Child like a Truck Driver is because you want them to feel secure and loved and after all, every day they’re learning.  They’re watching you, the Parent, to teach them how to be kind and decent.  But sometimes, every once in awhile, I wonder if they’re thinking, Damn, lady.  Can you get me my fucking milk already?  I only asked you like, 7 fucking times.  

And that, for whatever fucked up kind of reason, makes me smile just a little.