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Electric Boogie
February 24, 2010 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
My family (BFam, the kids, Bo) and I are not traditionalists. We like to do things as weirdly as possible because… well, I don’t know why. I’m bitter, BFam’s cranky, and then we had kids. You guessed it – instant recipe for disaster. When everyone was going out to dinner, buying flowers, going to the movies, and a host of other cliches on Valentine’s Day, I bought BFam DJ Hero and called it a day. “Here honey. Love you. Now go play.”
We, as the parents, are never without moments for teaching opportunities. Our brood are at the respective ages where they actually like us, want to be with us and, if they can, try their darndest to emulate us. BFam and I were never too keen on self confidence growing up, so the thought of raising two girls who want nothing more than to be our reflection is all at once cute and confusing and icky. We are a range of emotion varying from flattered to overtly repulsed. Our physical reactions are very Marcel Marceau, almost always resulting in us as puddles on the floor. Despair in Still Life, canvas and oil.
In all our writhing and thrashing on the ground with compliments, we are both surprisingly competitive. You can tell us how awesome we are with a video game, just don’t tell us you love us. BFam was a lucky man finding a chick who shared his video game passions, and that’s not tooting my horn. How many women do you know who can kick butt in Contra AND know the cheat code (up up down down left right left right B A)? Oh, yeah, baby. You don’t want none of this! Mooter is smart. She’s picked up the gaming gene and ran full force with it. And Mommy and Daddy can play the game with me? WHAT? Have you made my coffin yet because I’m ready to die.
Enter our teaching opportunity. No one has soaked this in more than BFam. He won’t tell me but, secretly, I think he wanted at least one of these broads to be a boy.
Master Obi Wan? Rock that beat…
And, no. He did not know he was being taped but HOW CUTE WAS THAT LITTLE DANCE? Also, SCORE POINTS FOR THE WIFE! WOO-HOO!!!
(I’m so going to pay for that.) Also? Please excuse my camerawork. I don’t know what I was focusing on. The drapes, maybe?
Also? Please excuse Mooter’s allergies.
That is all.
Mooter loves the chance to impress her father. She is a young Jedi after all. DJ Hero… let’s just say it’s not one of those types of games that allow you to show off, per se.
I can’t begin to analyze this performance because I am SUCKTASTIC on DJ Hero. It’s alright. I openly admit defeat. DJ’ing is just not my thing.
But you can’t tell that to DJ Rocks-A-Lot / a.k.a. DJ Fader / a.k.a. DJ Snot Tot. That midget is vicious on the ones and twos.
History Fail: Part Deux
February 23, 2010 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
Mooter. God love ‘er.
My eldest child is very interested in learning things. No one topic holds her attention. She wants quick and dirty downloads of whatever you can give her. Ever see the (now canceled, as is my luck with things I watch on TV) show Dollhouse? Crazy company downloading personalities and capabilities into memory-less people? Or The Matrix? Yeah, that’s another good one. Well, she’s one of the people letting Morpheus stick plugs into the back of her head.
Quick and dirty, man. There is no other way.
I was a lot like her as a kid, so I totally get it. And it may have transpired into my adult life. Working in Corporate America, I’ve had my fair share of reviews. I’ve been with the same company almost six years, and I have yet to receive a review without the words “needs to slow down and pay attention to detail” in them. If I remember correctly, the same was published on my report cards. I can’t help it. Give it to me fast. Give it to me now. Let’s sort out the details later. Unfortunately, along with my fear of irrational things, this was one of the gems my eldest decided she wanted to suck through her umbilical cord in utero. And, just as my mother experienced with me, asking her to slow down is futile. Her mouth says yes. Her eyes say, “OOH, WHAT’S THAT FUZZY BUNNY BEHIND YOU?!”
One of Mooter’s greatest points of interest is History. Fittingly, for the month of February, she is most captivated with black history. Her sweet, lovable little mind cannot comprehend violence, intolerance, or racism. I love this age: the flowers; the rose colors; the hearts; the L-O-L’s. She’s such a tree-hugging hippy. It’s one of the things I love most about her… and makes me want to lock her in the tallest tower surrounded by moats. And dragons. Lots and lots of dragons. That girl = death of me. But you gotta love ‘er.
Around this time last year, Mooter was just beginning to learn about Martin Luther King, Jr. and by “learn” I mean regurgitating a host of misinformation. I love my kid, but retention is not one of her strong suites. The ease with which she embellishes is so fluid, it would almost make sense for her to just skip college and become a con artist. Maybe her version sounds better. Hell, sometimes it sounds good to me. It’s wrong. But it sounds good. It is one of the reasons I’m almost positive I see a future writer in her. I should know.
This month, Mooter was conflicted with which point in history she wanted to tackle: black people or dead presidents. Given the conversation we had one night after work and school, I’ll let you determine which she chose…
Mooter: Mom. Was Abraham Lincoln shot in the back of the head when he was in a theeter?
Me: ‘Theater’. And yes.
Mooter: Was it the same man that shot Martin Luther King?
Me: [pauses] What?
Mooter: The man. The bad man. He shot Martin Luther King AND Abraham Lincoln. Right?
Me: No, honey. Those were two totally different men. Two totally different times.
Mooter: But why did they shoot Abraham Lincoln? You said they shot Martin Luther King because he was black, and…
Me: Young lady. I said no such thing. I said Martin Luther King was shot because he wanted to change things, and that there are people in the world who want things to stay the same.
Mooter: So why did they shot Abraham Lincoln?
Me: ‘Shoot’, and because he wanted things to change, and –
[In the distance] HI [insert Mooter's real name]! HI, HI! SEE YOU TOMORROW AT SCHOOL!
Mooter: BYE ALEX! BYE SOPHIE! BYE MITCHELL!
Me: [waiting] Um… did you want me to finish?
Mooter: Mom? What’s for dinner?
You’d think that was the end of it, right? I mean, I’ve been blown off by an eight-year-old with the attention span of a sneeze. What more do we have to talk about other than pork chops or chicken? Conversation over. End of the history lesson. Yet another attempt at the mother becoming the teacher ruined. I should be used to this. This, my friends, is parenting a young person at its finest.
A week later over dinner with the entire family…
Mooter: Mom. Our teacher taught us about George Washington for President’s Day. And you know what she said?
Me: What’s that, kid?
Mooter: [pauses] Wait a minute… George Washington was a president, right?
Me: Yes.
Mooter: OK. I knowed where George Washington was born. Want me to tell you? Wait a minute… where do they have the earthquakes at?
Me: California.
Mooter: Right. George Washington was born in… Beverly Hills. Where’s Beverly Hills again?
Me: [in shock] …California, and George Washington was not born in Beverly Hills because there was no Beverly Hills when there was George Washington and you are not going to make me believe your teacher told you that.
Mooter: [loudly] MOM. YES, HE WAS. MY TEACHER SAID!
Me: I don’t care how much you try to pin this on your teacher, she did not tell you that because it’s not right.
Mooter: BUT MOM!
BFam: Seriously, Moo. That’s enough of that. You’re making that up. There was no Beverly Hills then.
Mooter: BUT HE WAS!!!
BFam: Hey! No, he wasn’t and that’s all I want to hear about that. How are you going to argue with people on things you know NOTHING ABOUT?!
Me: I can’t wait to get home. I’m pulling up everything I can find on George Washington and making you read it. I should make you do a book report on it.
Mooter: I don’t need to do a book report. My teacher already told us!
BFam: [insert Mooter's entire government name, and BFam's bulging neck veins, here]!
Mooter: [heartbroken] …but… my teacher –
BFam: ENOUGH.
Booger: Cann’i hah sum mower shokuhnit mulk?
[silence]
Mooter: Well, at least I knowed he was borned in Washington, D.C. Because that’s how he got his name.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how history is driving families apart.
An Open Letter To Forbes Magazine
February 22, 2010 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
Dear Forbes Magazine:
Hi. How you doing? It’s Cleveland. Cleveland, Ohio? Yeah, hi. We usually only speak to each other annually – you with your biting zingers and lists against me; me whimpering off in a corner somewhere wondering what I’ve done to offend you. Which leads me to the point of my open letter…
Dude. What the frick?!
Every year, you come out with these lists. Every year, we’re on the list for the worst in something. One year, we were #6 on the America’s Fastest-Dying City list. But now? In the words of J.T. Matthews, now you’ve gone too far. Were #1. Sounds like it should be a compliment, but we’re #1 as America’s Most Miserable City! You named us #4 as America’s Most Stressful City. One of the worst cities for credit card debt. We’re one of the worst cities to rent a home. We even made an appearance on the table for America’s Most Time-Draining Airports (at least we were #70 there). Somehow, we placed 27th on the list of Best Cities For Young Professionals. I’m still trying to figure that one out. But #1? In misery?!
So, what is it, Forbes? What did we ever do to you? Sure, you’ve got U.S. Census Bureaus and tons of statistical data to back up your claims. And, yes, we Clevelanders are a miserable bunch. Our city hasn’t been much to boast about in… well, ever? I mean, we get it. We live here, day in and day out. But we choose to live here. Our sports teams suck (except the CAVS because WOO-HOO… although we did just trade “Z”, so… WWWAAAAAHHAAAAA UH-HEEEEE *breath* EEEEEEEEEHHH *wipes tears*), our residents are overweight, we are culturally commonplace, lacking swank and couth.
We are a podunk Midwest town, victims of the industrial bust, with political officials who could care less about revitalizing the city. Our public schools may as well be how-to prisons. But I have a husband (sports nut), an aunt (public school principal), a mother and grandmother (retired case workers), and a boss (private equity CEO) who would say otherwise. I couldn’t pay any of the people in that list to leave what you (and our sister office in New York) obviously shutter to step foot in. I’ve had people from Minnesota and Chicago tell us our winters suck.
MINNESOTA. CHICAGO.
This city is like a sibling: no one can talk about it but the city dwellers. Residents have a love-hate relationship with this place. We know it’s screwed up. We know it farts at the dinner table. We know it’s got a lazy eye, a wooden tooth and a peg leg. We’re the crazy uncle no one wants to invite over. We’re the ugly girlfriend. We know we’re as used up and worn out as a $2 hooker. But it’s ours and we like it.
So you go on in your hoity-toity offices of New York City. Keep thumbing your noses at us and putting us on your lists. Just remember, when the end of the world comes (be it aliens or asteroids), they always destroy your place first.
I’m just sayin’.
(Oh, and that private equity CEO? Born and raised in New York. So there!)
FEAR No. 055 – Dreams To Remember
February 22, 2010 by NaysWay · 2 Comments
I’ve got dreams
Dreams to remember–Otis Redding, I’ve Got Dreams to Remember (1968)
When I was a kid, I was surrounded by an abode of women. Residing in a two and a half family house, there were three generations of us. That many women would (and did) drive sane men crazy. What’s worse, every woman carried some degree of Pack Ratisitis. It’s a very common disease. Among the elderly.
Luckily, Pack Ratisitis unearthed some pretty sweet booty. One of those treasures was an old year-by-year memory book of grade school years. By the smell of it, I figured it was more than twenty years old. (I have a knack for knowing years by must. My nose is awesome. Don’t question my nostrils.) I couldn’t believe my luck. I not only had just the kind of family that collected everything under the sun, I had the kind of family that collected every school picture I’d ever taken since birth. Add the one, carry the two, and I had just enough photos to cover grades one through four.
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Valenti Day
February 17, 2010 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
BFam and I aren’t big on Valentine’s Day. You’d figure someone as heartwarmingly loving toward Christmas as I am, would have a greater fondness of the holiday for lovers.
Then you’ll realize I just hurled because I said “lovers”. And now I feel all dirty. Thanks a lot.
So surprise when Mooter, the anti-me, had herself a little countdown for the day. I could have easily sat her down and explained to her the falsehoods and sheer idiocy behind such a farse, but I am constantly reminding myself that she’s eight. And I am an old, bitter thirty two-year-old.
Feh.
And when you’re as wide-eyed and bushy tailed as my endearing, bleeding heart daughter, you get things like this:
Then you feel like this:
So, you know. There’s that.
To show my allegiance to the can’t-beat-’em-join-’em brigade, I did things for my daughters (and husband) I am not proud of.
I baked.
What’s the big deal, you say? If you knew me, you’d know this is an extremely big deal. I don’t bake. I don’t cook. Not to say that I can’t. I can. I’m not too shabby at either. Even better, I love food. I think it’s comforting and sentimental and elevating. Yes, I’m still talking about food. But the work. The slaving. The heat of the stove. The standing. The gnashing of teeth. It’s too much. It’s enough to disprove my love of food.
Then I saw a recipe that spoke to me.
Lucky for my children, it spoke to them, too.
Oh. Oh, my word.
This is… oh.
I feel so dirty. This is not fit for little people. Cover their eyes.
The eating of the cupcake should have been outlawed in several states.
I’m not a foodblogger. The thought of cooking alone sends me into fits of rage. I couldn’t imagine mustering enough patience sitting through shot after shot after shot after shot of the cooking. And the raging. Oh, the raging. It wouldn’t be pretty. And no one would follow it because I’d be too busy cursing and throwing things. God bless those who do it and do it well, but…
It ain’t me.
[The recipe that spoke to me: Life By Chocolate from The Pioneer Woman]
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