Such is life!

From My Mouth to Jobs' Ear

In my last blog entry I talked about how critical owning an iPod was to my existence. And now, ta-da!, I have an iPod! No, the donations did not come pouring in, much to my surprise. But my husband did happen to drive by an iPod repair shop. It cost $100 to fix my previously broken hand-me-down iPod. That’s a bargain because I was determined to buy an iPod this year. And while I would have started out telling myself to get the basic no-frills model, I would have read the increasingly glowing Amazon reviews about how much better the latest model was and purchased the most expensive iPod available at the time. So really, I’m saving money. Really.

Of course, I am still figuring out how to use it. I hear all the time about how easy and intuitive Apple products are, but I don’t think they take into account people like me who have no common sense. My intuitive is probably Apple’s counterintuitive. For instance, I find myself clicking on things in the iTunes store and nothing happens. So I’ll keep clicking harder and faster as though the real problem is with my clicking method rather than the possibility that I’m not supposed to be clicking at all. I’ve also created a bunch of “Untitled Playlist” folders in my futile attempt to organize my podcasts. Ironically, one the podcasts that I’ve downloaded a bunch of episodes for is about organizing. I wonder if one of them explains how to organize your podcasts. 

So the bottom line is, I blog about my need for an iPod and BOOM, I get an iPod. That’s why my next blog entry will be entitled “Why I Really, Really Need a Trillion Dollars.”

The Inalienable Right to an iPod

You know you’re spoiled when next to food, clothing and shelter, you view the iPod as a critical necessity. Just call me Paris then! Every time I take a walk, I spend at least ten minutes resenting the fact that I don’t have an iPod.

And what makes it worse is that I’m the only one in our family without one. My husband and eight year-old each have one, and even the three year-old has a Fisher-Price version of one. When he traded up for a newer model, my husband gave me his old iPod, but it suffered mechanical heart failure just a couple of weeks later.

After resentment time is over, I start thinking about the music I want to download and all the categories and sub-categories I want to create. And then there’s all the free podcasts available. I can actually hear podcasts where people obsessively break down episodes of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and discuss all of the philosophical issues raised by each episode. Is this a great era we live in, or what?!

So the next time you’re quickly scrolling through your playlist for the perfect song, think of those of us who suffer each day without an iPod. For just a few hundred dollars each year, you could ensure that one, maybe two people, get to enjoy the same musical lifestyle that you take for granted. Won’t you give? Do it for the betterment of the world. Do it for the children.

Sweet Love

So last night, B, who’s three, and I, were lying in bed, snuggling before he went to sleep. And he says, “I love you so much!” I kiss him on the forehead, and say, “I love you so much, too!” Then he says, “No, I was talking to this.” He shows me a blue, candy-coated chocolate egg he’s holding in his hand.

Who am I to judge? I currently have a king-sized Snickers bar hidden in my underwear drawer, and don’t think I’m not whispering my own declarations of love to it as I’m getting ready in the morning.

Bad Blogger. No Doughnut.

Even though my dating years are waaaaaay behind me, and even though I was hardly a prodigious dater in the first place, I have developed a newfound sympathy for the guys. I’ve always hated the empty “I’ll call you” gesture. Not just for the personal rejection factor, but mainly because it’s dishonest, and that bugs me.

But with my blog, I really have meant to write more. Honest! I had an amazing Santa blog entry for December, but I never got around to writing it. Then it seemed embarrassingly late to post it, so it’s heading to the bargain bin where it may make an appearance next Christmas.

Which leads to my newfound understanding of the guy’s perspective. Maybe those guys really did mean to call. But then a few days passed, and it was reaching the borderline late phase. Then a few more days would pass, and the guy would feel guilty for not calling earlier and would now need a plausible excuse regarding why he hadn’t called. That would lead to more days going by and more guilt, ultimately snowballing into a no-call. Or in my case, the no-blog. (And, yes, I reserve the right to imagine that any guy who said he was going to call me, but didn’t, really meant to call and spent the rest of his life in a deep depression over the fact that his social faux pas resulted in the loss of a gem like me.)

Really, when it comes to the paucity of my blogs, I don’t know what the issue is. It’s like I believe there’s a Pulitzer Prize for blogs, and perhaps someone on the committee is patrolling the Internet searching for the next winner. Or maybe a magazine editor has been looking online for a new columnist to grossly overpay, and if I post a quick blog – complete with typos, mixed metaphors and dangling participles – I will have lost out on the opportunity.

There’s also the technology issue. I always imagine the posting of a blog entry to be much more difficult than it is. I have friends posting retrospective photo montages of their kids and videos of dogs thrilled at the prospect of a trip to the grocery store, and here I am, the Luddite, fretting over a text entry.

So while I can’t commit to any particular timeframe, I will try to post much more frequently than the once every few months I’ve been posting. Let the joyous worldwide celebrations begin!

How to Differentiate Me from Carol Brady

I was pretty bummed to read in one of my middle-aged women’s magazines that when it comes to communicating with teenagers, you shouldn’t be sarcastic. Looks like I won’t be talking to my kids for a seven-year stretch.

I have always gone ahead and used my normal (okay abnormal) sarcastic humor with my kids. Even before they could speak. Sure, I may offer PG versions of some of my more risqué potential comments, but I figure that they’ll laugh or go, “Huh?” So far, the 8-year-old gets me and usually appreciates my humor.

Here are just a few examples of things I’ve said recently that seventies sit-com moms did not say to their children:

The 3-year-old brought me a toy and said that it was dead. A new battery may have done the trick, but if it’s not a AA or AAA battery, it takes me months to remember to buy it. So rather than promising to run out and fix it right then, I just said, “It’s not like I can perform CPR on it and bring it back to life.” Thus ending all hopes for a toy that worked and a happy childhood.

H – the 8-year-old, informed that he had lost the hood of his coat and had absolutely no idea where it was. He said it in that annoying kid way that implies, “and more importantly, I don’t care. I know you apparently have to work to buy me things, and I don’t take care of them, but that’s frankly your concern and not mine. Yours is to give. Mine is to take, destroy, and lose." So I asked, “If I bashed you up side the head with a shovel a few times, would that help you remember?” He just laughed.

And finally, my husband loves to wrestle with the kids. The violence doesn’t bother me. As long as they leave me alone, they can inflict all the physical pain they want. However, the fighting inevitably ends with one of them crying and/or screaming for me. This time, it was H who got hurt and came running to me for hugs and to wipe away his tears. I comforted him by saying, “If it makes you feel any better, he’s not your real father. Your dad is Satan, a much kinder, gentler man.” Funnily enough, my husband didn’t find this as amusing as my son and I did.

LEGO WARS MMVI

I learned something about my oldest son today. I don't think I'm being too dramatic when I say that he will forever be branded as a "shiftless, lazy, ne'er do well." He will never hold a job for more than two hours. Older people will point to him as exhibit A for what's wrong with "this generation." 

It began, as all things do, with Legos. I insisted that he spend 15 minutes helping me clean the upstairs which was littered with Legos. He apparently thought helping meant plop down on the floor and rest. I gave him the teamwork speech. I game him the family means helping speech. Then I gave him the you're-not-doing-anything-else-for-the-rest-of-your-life-until-you've-picked-up-the-Legos’ speech.

What should have been a 10-minute task, turned into an hour-long ordeal. When it comes to work of any kind, my son goes through many stages of grief. Not only is there anger, denial and bargaining, but he generously throws in some whining, complaining, sulking, indignant, weaseling, petulant, and tantrum phases as a delightful bonus.

No amount of explaining that he could have been long done if all the energy spent in avoiding the task had been used to actually do the task is effective. I can already see him working at a video store saying, "Why should *I* have to re-shelve the movies? I didn't check them out!" 

The funny thing is, I used to think that between my two children, he would be my retirement fund kid. He's always asking about money, wanting to know ways he can earn it. He is thrilled beyond belief that the minimum wage is a whole $5.15/hour. And he's frequently resentful that I won't let him get a job bussing tables, even though he's only 8.

In a way, I can relate. I often daydream about future potential jobs, accompanied by a little dinging cash register in my head as I start totaling what-if scenarios. But while imaginary salaries don't pay the bills, imaginary work is lot easier to do. Hmmm, maybe I see where he gets his attitude. So I guess this summer I really will have to enroll him in Kids' Coalmining Camp. That oughta teach him!