Chuckle #407 | May 26th, 2010
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My bananas have spots. For a banana, this is the beginning of the end. For me, spots mean it's time to trigger the stop-loss order. Because when a banana is ever so slightly past its prime, no one will eat it. This is a classic Yankee Dilemma. There is NO WAY I am throwing these bananas out, so how should I attempt to salvage them this time?
I could…
1) Eat the bananas myself, even though I don’t like bananas.
2) Make banana bread.
3) Disguise the bananas in a smoothie and feed them to my kids without their knowledge.
4) Freeze them for future use, only to throw them out 4 months from now when I can’t identify the strange mush in the Ziploc.
5) Mail them to my dad who is more than happy to eat anything, even black bananas.
What makes this banana crisis even worse than the usual banana crisis is that these were ORGANIC bananas. Ka-ching$$$! The only thing more painful than throwing out a 25 cent banana, is throwing out a banana that cost me a buck fifty.
I don’t know about you, but for me, the bad banana situation is psychologically untenable. I cannot bring myself to throw away the bananas, yet there is not much I can do with said bananas (that is both palatable and effortless.) Bad bananas are to moms what Fermat's Last Theorem is (or had been) to mathematicians, or the Cuban missile crisis to Kennedy, etc…. It’s an unsolvable riddle; a lose/lose; a conundrum.
Yet I am COMPELLED to act. I know from experience that getting rid of a fruit fly infestation is even harder than getting rid of bananas.
Nobody likes a bad banana. Bad banana disdain is deeply rooted in our society’s shared experience. Bad banana messages have been ingrained in our psyche through song, proverbs, and various incomprehensible sayings…
“You’re a bad banana with a greasy black peel…” (Grinch soundtrack.)
“No sane person sharpens his machete to cut a banana tree.” (Nigerian proverb.)
“Time flies like an arrow, but fruit flies like a banana.”
“One bad banana can spoil the whole bunch.”
And NO, I have not gone bananas, I’m just trying to get rid of them. Smoothie anyone?
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
The Consequences of Being Raised by Bears
Chuckle #406 | May 19th, 2010
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I’m a huge fan of Emily Post. Like Emily, I think table manners are important. So over the years I’ve put a lot of effort into teaching my children proper table behavior. I do this through constant nagging, public embarrassment, occasional bribery, and complicated hand signals that only an MLB pitcher could follow. Emily would not have approved of my methods. But then Emily was not blessed with my three children.
I thought my efforts were paying off until I looked around the dinner table last night. Not a single child had remembered to put their napkin on their lap. I was discouraged. My kids were so completely lacking in savoir-faire, you’d think they had been raised by bears.
Some people think this stuff isn’t important. Some people don’t care how others hold their forks or cut their meat. Some people are unbothered by elbows on the table. If you haven’t already guessed, I am not some people. But my children are. It is now my job to “fix” them, so that they can get a good job; marry a prince; or attend a presidential dinner without qualms. Or at least not embarrass themselves in public.
Good manners should fit like a glove. But most kids are “not to the manner born”*. They need to be taught. Over time, with lots of repetition, your kids will put their napkins on their laps. Good manners will hopefully become second nature, overcoming “first nature,” which compels them to trash their rooms and eat with their hands. Like bears.
What if I fail to teach my kids proper table manners? This is the scary part. Then the only people who would consider marrying them will also be etiquette challenged. I will have sons and daughters-in-law who are slobs. They will breed children who blow their noses at the dinner table and wipe their hands on their shirts. There is simply no way I am hosting Thanksgiving dinner under those circumstances.
So you see, the stakes are huge.
If I fail, I will be responsible for creating an entirely new generation of badly mannered grandchildren. The mere thought of the little monsters gives me the strength to keep nagging my own kids about “elbows off the table”. Thank goodness I still have time to mold my kids into proper ladies and gentlemen, and save us all.
I will NOT let the bears win this one.
*(Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 4)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloutmom.com/
Copyright, 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, USA
scroll down to leave a comment
I’m a huge fan of Emily Post. Like Emily, I think table manners are important. So over the years I’ve put a lot of effort into teaching my children proper table behavior. I do this through constant nagging, public embarrassment, occasional bribery, and complicated hand signals that only an MLB pitcher could follow. Emily would not have approved of my methods. But then Emily was not blessed with my three children.
I thought my efforts were paying off until I looked around the dinner table last night. Not a single child had remembered to put their napkin on their lap. I was discouraged. My kids were so completely lacking in savoir-faire, you’d think they had been raised by bears.
Some people think this stuff isn’t important. Some people don’t care how others hold their forks or cut their meat. Some people are unbothered by elbows on the table. If you haven’t already guessed, I am not some people. But my children are. It is now my job to “fix” them, so that they can get a good job; marry a prince; or attend a presidential dinner without qualms. Or at least not embarrass themselves in public.
Good manners should fit like a glove. But most kids are “not to the manner born”*. They need to be taught. Over time, with lots of repetition, your kids will put their napkins on their laps. Good manners will hopefully become second nature, overcoming “first nature,” which compels them to trash their rooms and eat with their hands. Like bears.
What if I fail to teach my kids proper table manners? This is the scary part. Then the only people who would consider marrying them will also be etiquette challenged. I will have sons and daughters-in-law who are slobs. They will breed children who blow their noses at the dinner table and wipe their hands on their shirts. There is simply no way I am hosting Thanksgiving dinner under those circumstances.
So you see, the stakes are huge.
If I fail, I will be responsible for creating an entirely new generation of badly mannered grandchildren. The mere thought of the little monsters gives me the strength to keep nagging my own kids about “elbows off the table”. Thank goodness I still have time to mold my kids into proper ladies and gentlemen, and save us all.
I will NOT let the bears win this one.
*(Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 4)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloutmom.com/
Copyright, 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, USA
Confessions of a Musically Challenged Mom
Chuckle #405 | May 12th, 2010
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That's it. I can no longer physically or mentally, keep up. My kids seem to start a new activity or hobby every 5 minutes. In just the past six months I’ve had to learn the ins and outs of chorale, crew, volleyball, mock trial, and fencing. My brain is full. I’m an “old dog”.
Unfortunately there are still “new tricks” to learn. Showing a surprising lack of compassion for my intellectual limitations, my son has taken up composing. So I must now learn stuff about classical music. Compared to volleyball, the world of classical music is EPIC. I love my son, but my musical horizons have long been limited to rocking the Black Eyed Peas on my way to Marshalls to shop. Now I need to know the answer to questions like “what is a fugue?” and “which instruments make up a wind quintet?”
This is NOT how I had planned to use the few middle aged brain cells I have left.
I’ve tried to like classical music. I’ve tried to train my ear. I have three classical music stations pre-programmed into my car’s XM. But yesterday (ex-post piano concerto), I arrived at Marshalls only to find myself too sleepy to shop. Not the desired effect of a get psyched “shop till I drop” anthem.
Symphonies (or rather Sonatas for Orchestras) average about 35 minutes, though Beethoven’s Symphony #3 in E Flat Major (AKA Eroica) is closer to an hour. In the age of shortened attention spans, I think popular music became popular simply because the songs last only 2 minutes. They fit better into modern carpool life. And you can totally appreciate Lady Gaga without having a degree in music theory.
It does not help me at all that most classical music pieces are known only by a number. A “real” name would give a listener like me context (especially when there are no lyrics to tell you what the heck is going on.)
I encourage my son to call his compositions something other than “Piano Concerto #4.” I suggest clever alliteratives like “Cafeteria Cacophony” and “Teenager Tantrum.” Suggestions he has ignored in favor of cleverer names like “Thinis Burning”, (which provides a metaphorical context only for those of us intimately familiar with ancient Egyptian history.) Which I am not. No wonder classical music audiences are dwindling – so the experts say.
There is an ocean between my son’s musical tastes and my own. I’m doing my best to part the waters, but Moses I am not. (Though the purchase of “Classical Music for Dummies” has been a godsend.) I pity the poor boy. When he asks me to listen to his compositions, I say insightful, constructive things like “that middle part was weird” and “sounds like fairies being chased by saber wielding Mongols.”
My son suffers my ignorance like a true gentleman. He continues to seek, and actually listens to, my layman’s opinion. Perhaps my son will be “the one” to bring a true love of classical music to middle aged, musically challenged moms like myself. Who knows, people like me (whose interest in classical is driven by love, not intellectual curiosity) just might be the future of the art. Carnegie Hall subscription holders can cringe all they want.
That said, if I am to keep up with my son’s musical interests, con molto brio, I’m going to need a few more brain cells. Maybe I can harvest them from my kids. They seem to have plenty to spare.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
That's it. I can no longer physically or mentally, keep up. My kids seem to start a new activity or hobby every 5 minutes. In just the past six months I’ve had to learn the ins and outs of chorale, crew, volleyball, mock trial, and fencing. My brain is full. I’m an “old dog”.
Unfortunately there are still “new tricks” to learn. Showing a surprising lack of compassion for my intellectual limitations, my son has taken up composing. So I must now learn stuff about classical music. Compared to volleyball, the world of classical music is EPIC. I love my son, but my musical horizons have long been limited to rocking the Black Eyed Peas on my way to Marshalls to shop. Now I need to know the answer to questions like “what is a fugue?” and “which instruments make up a wind quintet?”
This is NOT how I had planned to use the few middle aged brain cells I have left.
I’ve tried to like classical music. I’ve tried to train my ear. I have three classical music stations pre-programmed into my car’s XM. But yesterday (ex-post piano concerto), I arrived at Marshalls only to find myself too sleepy to shop. Not the desired effect of a get psyched “shop till I drop” anthem.
Symphonies (or rather Sonatas for Orchestras) average about 35 minutes, though Beethoven’s Symphony #3 in E Flat Major (AKA Eroica) is closer to an hour. In the age of shortened attention spans, I think popular music became popular simply because the songs last only 2 minutes. They fit better into modern carpool life. And you can totally appreciate Lady Gaga without having a degree in music theory.
It does not help me at all that most classical music pieces are known only by a number. A “real” name would give a listener like me context (especially when there are no lyrics to tell you what the heck is going on.)
I encourage my son to call his compositions something other than “Piano Concerto #4.” I suggest clever alliteratives like “Cafeteria Cacophony” and “Teenager Tantrum.” Suggestions he has ignored in favor of cleverer names like “Thinis Burning”, (which provides a metaphorical context only for those of us intimately familiar with ancient Egyptian history.) Which I am not. No wonder classical music audiences are dwindling – so the experts say.
There is an ocean between my son’s musical tastes and my own. I’m doing my best to part the waters, but Moses I am not. (Though the purchase of “Classical Music for Dummies” has been a godsend.) I pity the poor boy. When he asks me to listen to his compositions, I say insightful, constructive things like “that middle part was weird” and “sounds like fairies being chased by saber wielding Mongols.”
My son suffers my ignorance like a true gentleman. He continues to seek, and actually listens to, my layman’s opinion. Perhaps my son will be “the one” to bring a true love of classical music to middle aged, musically challenged moms like myself. Who knows, people like me (whose interest in classical is driven by love, not intellectual curiosity) just might be the future of the art. Carnegie Hall subscription holders can cringe all they want.
That said, if I am to keep up with my son’s musical interests, con molto brio, I’m going to need a few more brain cells. Maybe I can harvest them from my kids. They seem to have plenty to spare.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
Mother's Day Ode on a Selfless Spouse (He's "Urned" It)
CHUCKLE #404 | May 5th, 2010
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I would like to take a moment to sing the praises and extol the virtues of my husband. Why? Because Mother’s Day is upon us and the “orchestration” of this momentous occasion invariably falls to him, poor guy. My children, while well meaning and adorable, don’t care that much about Mother's Day. But mothers do. So every year my husband selflessly steps in to bridge the gap between expectation and reality.
But is this love, or self-preservation?
Let’s face facts. Taking care of Mom is clearly in Dad’s interest. If the kids fail to perform, or forget Mother’s Day entirely, husbands will have unhappy wives. Unhappy wives make for VERY unhappy husbands. Hence my spouse’s enthusiastic shouldering of the role of writer, producer and director of our annual Mother’s Day docudrama. If only he could hire more talented child actors to replace the ones he sired.
Given the stakes, most men know better than to leave this day to chance (or worse, to the imagination and efforts of their own kids.)
Luckily for my husband, I am not high maintenance. I feel pretty well loved all year, so Mother’s Day is no biggie. I don’t expect anything fancy, but I DO like my traditional coffee in bed. It’s also nice if my kids come into my room while I am drinking said coffee, and tell me how awesome I am. White lies are encouraged and homemade cards are always a nice touch. (Hint, hint.)
Once the breakfast-in-bed ritual is complete, I’m more than happy to let the remainder of the day revolve around the kids, as usual.
So if you have a GREAT Mother’s Day weekend, be sure to thank your husband. He is most likely behind both the concept and execution of any touching moments your children may “spontaneously” create on your behalf.
And just between you and me, I think we all know the real reason why “Dad” takes the time to ensure that Mother’s Day goes well…
FATHER’S DAY is just around the corner.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle online at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
I would like to take a moment to sing the praises and extol the virtues of my husband. Why? Because Mother’s Day is upon us and the “orchestration” of this momentous occasion invariably falls to him, poor guy. My children, while well meaning and adorable, don’t care that much about Mother's Day. But mothers do. So every year my husband selflessly steps in to bridge the gap between expectation and reality.
But is this love, or self-preservation?
Let’s face facts. Taking care of Mom is clearly in Dad’s interest. If the kids fail to perform, or forget Mother’s Day entirely, husbands will have unhappy wives. Unhappy wives make for VERY unhappy husbands. Hence my spouse’s enthusiastic shouldering of the role of writer, producer and director of our annual Mother’s Day docudrama. If only he could hire more talented child actors to replace the ones he sired.
Given the stakes, most men know better than to leave this day to chance (or worse, to the imagination and efforts of their own kids.)
Luckily for my husband, I am not high maintenance. I feel pretty well loved all year, so Mother’s Day is no biggie. I don’t expect anything fancy, but I DO like my traditional coffee in bed. It’s also nice if my kids come into my room while I am drinking said coffee, and tell me how awesome I am. White lies are encouraged and homemade cards are always a nice touch. (Hint, hint.)
Once the breakfast-in-bed ritual is complete, I’m more than happy to let the remainder of the day revolve around the kids, as usual.
So if you have a GREAT Mother’s Day weekend, be sure to thank your husband. He is most likely behind both the concept and execution of any touching moments your children may “spontaneously” create on your behalf.
And just between you and me, I think we all know the real reason why “Dad” takes the time to ensure that Mother’s Day goes well…
FATHER’S DAY is just around the corner.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle online at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
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