Chuckle #411 | June 30th, 2010
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I can no longer ignore the possibility that my children are spoiled. There is way too much evidence. Teenagers have it easy these days. Aside from occasionally mowing the lawn, they do little actual manual labor. What will happen to them when they enter the “real” world?
My friends and I are worried that we are raising a lost generation of ne’er-do-well freeloaders. We commiserate over organic Foie Gras and Dom Perignon. (Just kidding.) Funny, our parents worried about the same thing. Nor were they shy about telling us exactly what they endured on our behalf.
It goes something like this…
I walked to school all winter, 5 miles each way, BAREFOOT.
I worked five summer jobs to pay for college, because my parents couldn’t spare a dime once the cow died.
I had to clean the rabbits and squirrels that my dad shot for our dinner.
As a child of the 70s, I did none of that. In fact, I suffered very little.
No, when I was a teenager, I selflessly bought myself a convertible with my hard earned summer job money. The fact that my house was peeling was not my concern. In my mother’s day, that money would have gone for college tuition or to put food on the table. By those standards “teenager me” was spoiled, and by those standards, my kids are spoiled rotten.
I think the rising standard of living, new technologies, and John Maynard Keynes are all equally at fault for the current situation. (Ok, maybe I bear SOME responsibility.) Luckily there is hope, but only because we are in a recession. History tells us that there is nothing like a GREAT DEPRESSION, to teach a kid the value of a buck (and of child labor laws.)
The current economic downturn is a blessing in disguise. A new generation of Americans will have lower expectations of economic success and social mobility. A new generation of Americans will be happier with less.
Our kids could learn to live without internet access on their cell phones and without HBO. They could learn to appreciate having a roof over their heads, and food on their plates, and not say things like, pasta? Again?
Then again, thanks to the recession, there aren’t many jobs for teenagers. It’s hard to learn about how to work hard when you can’t get work. No problem. We’ll simply teach our kids the value of hard work the old fashioned way, (no, not by telling them stories of our youth) but by giving them rewarding tasks like painting the house, chopping wood, and cleaning crusty bird poop off the car.
Come to think of it, I’ve got a major “to do” list that will cost me hundreds if not thousands of dollars to complete – IF I hired professionals. But lucky for me, I have unemployed teenagers. Aka FREE labor. (The only hard labor they’ve ever seen is when I gave birth to them.) They owe me.
I will assign them menial tasks and sweaty nasty jobs that I don’t want to do. They will learn about hard work and hard times. They will become better people. They will despise me at first (but thank me when they are 25 and no have to live at home.) I will reward them with home cooked meals. Which they will not eat because they’d rather have Chinese. (Some things will never change.) But I will not shirk from my duty.
Enough with the pampering, coddling, and indulging. This depression (aka recession) is an opportunity that I will not…no…I cannot waste. And once I clue my friends into the free labor lurking on their couch and eating their Fritos, neither will they.
We take our parenting duties seriously. And the house really does need painting.
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
Wanna be Friends? (with benefits?)
Chuckle #410 | June 23rd, 2010
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I like having friends with benefits. No, not those kinds of benefits. Of which I disapprove by the way. I’m talking about friends with big hearts, open ears, and lots of cool stuff. If you are very lucky, that “stuff” might include a fully staffed Tuscan Villa with a well-stocked wine cellar. That’s what I call friends with benefits.
When you make friends, you really shouldn’t take into consideration their material possessions. But if you happen to discover (after the fact) that your carefully chosen friend “soul mates” also have desirable skills, knowledge, and European vacation homes, you should certainly partake of them; and they of your case of Bud Light. ‘Cause that’s what being a friend is all about. Sharing.
You see, as preschoolers we are taught, nay, we are required to share our toys. All that early childhood brainwashing about “toy sharing” continues to benefit those of us with the fewest toys - well into adulthood. If your friends were raised right, they will feel COMPELLED to share their stuff with you. Don’t feel bad. As long as you share back, you shouldn’t feel any guilt about taking what they gladly have to offer.
SHARING makes everyone feel good, whether it’s a 50 foot yacht or a 2-man tent.
Material goods (and joking) aside, the most important thing for women to share is advice and support. For this we need friends. Close friends, best friends, acquaintances, work buddies, neighbors – we need them all. No woman in her right mind is going to ask her teenage daughter a question like, “Do these jeans make me look fat?” unless she wants to end up in counseling, or jail. That’s what friends are for. (‘Cause husbands would only lie.)
I have brainy and compassionate friends who would NEVER say that I look fat in my jeans. They would say that the color was wrong for me or that the cut was bad. This makes me an excellent friend chooser. Over time these friends have also acquired vacation homes, boats, pools and tennis courts. They have organizational skills, decorating know-how, gardening knowledge and are willing to carpool. I honestly don’t know what they get out of being friends with me, but I hope that they are too big hearted to care.
And FYI, if your female friends happen to have cool husbands, you get a relationship two-fer, you get bro-friends. (Note that bro-friends do NOT come with “benefits” of ANY KIND, other than emergency spider or mouse removal. Just in case you were wondering where to draw the line.)
If you are really looking for a “friend with benefits”, just look at the guy who married you. He’s seen you at your worst and persevered through it all. He probably knows you better than anyone else, and STILL loves you. My husband also defragments my hard drive, tells me I’m beautiful and takes out the garbage. Talk about friends with benefits…
-------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
I like having friends with benefits. No, not those kinds of benefits. Of which I disapprove by the way. I’m talking about friends with big hearts, open ears, and lots of cool stuff. If you are very lucky, that “stuff” might include a fully staffed Tuscan Villa with a well-stocked wine cellar. That’s what I call friends with benefits.
When you make friends, you really shouldn’t take into consideration their material possessions. But if you happen to discover (after the fact) that your carefully chosen friend “soul mates” also have desirable skills, knowledge, and European vacation homes, you should certainly partake of them; and they of your case of Bud Light. ‘Cause that’s what being a friend is all about. Sharing.
You see, as preschoolers we are taught, nay, we are required to share our toys. All that early childhood brainwashing about “toy sharing” continues to benefit those of us with the fewest toys - well into adulthood. If your friends were raised right, they will feel COMPELLED to share their stuff with you. Don’t feel bad. As long as you share back, you shouldn’t feel any guilt about taking what they gladly have to offer.
SHARING makes everyone feel good, whether it’s a 50 foot yacht or a 2-man tent.
Material goods (and joking) aside, the most important thing for women to share is advice and support. For this we need friends. Close friends, best friends, acquaintances, work buddies, neighbors – we need them all. No woman in her right mind is going to ask her teenage daughter a question like, “Do these jeans make me look fat?” unless she wants to end up in counseling, or jail. That’s what friends are for. (‘Cause husbands would only lie.)
I have brainy and compassionate friends who would NEVER say that I look fat in my jeans. They would say that the color was wrong for me or that the cut was bad. This makes me an excellent friend chooser. Over time these friends have also acquired vacation homes, boats, pools and tennis courts. They have organizational skills, decorating know-how, gardening knowledge and are willing to carpool. I honestly don’t know what they get out of being friends with me, but I hope that they are too big hearted to care.
And FYI, if your female friends happen to have cool husbands, you get a relationship two-fer, you get bro-friends. (Note that bro-friends do NOT come with “benefits” of ANY KIND, other than emergency spider or mouse removal. Just in case you were wondering where to draw the line.)
If you are really looking for a “friend with benefits”, just look at the guy who married you. He’s seen you at your worst and persevered through it all. He probably knows you better than anyone else, and STILL loves you. My husband also defragments my hard drive, tells me I’m beautiful and takes out the garbage. Talk about friends with benefits…
-------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
The Caveman Diet is not so "Offal"
Chuckle #409 | June 16th, 2010
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Yesterday my husband told me that I eat too much red meat. Because I love my husband, I decided to take his concerns seriously. BUT, because I also love meat, (not quite as much as I love my husband, but close) I am determined to preserve and protect my meat centered lifestyle. I’m now desperately seeking a scientific justification for extreme carnivoredom. Not an easy task.
So I temporarily took the pork butt off the grill and began searching for nutritional proof that meat rules. What I found was the Caveman Diet - AKA Paleolithic Diet; Hunter-Gatherer or Stone Age Diet. This is an approach that supports my love for meat, but appears to be a completely idiotic way to live. But who am I to judge?
There are apparently many people, mostly macho hedge fund guys in NYC, who think that eating just meat, roots and berries will make them live longer and improve their virility. Since most cavemen never lived past age 17, I’m not sure how this could be right. On the other hand, you and I are living proof that there is something to the claim of improved virility.
Then I discovered the very disappointing fact that I’m only meant to consume 2.5 ounces of red meat per day. That’s total barbeque buzz kill. That’s like one teriyaki beef stick at a Chinese restaurant, or one sirloin cube from a kabob. You can’t even buy a steak that small. Unfortunately, every medical “association” in America seems to be on the same page when it comes to red meat. Too much is bad. But 2.5 ounces? I can’t live with that. I’ve got a 12 pound pork butt on the grill, and I’ve named it Bluebell.
There has to be a happy medium (or preferably, a happy medium rare.)
But then I thought, why give up my copious meat intake, when I can simply eat healthier meat? That’s when I found Slanker’s Grass Fed Meats of Texas. Lower in fat, higher in omega-3s, free range in the USA, hormone free, and raised by libertarians. Politics aside, I just found the scientific justification for my preferred lifestyle.
This is happy meat, vs. happy meals. I can get a quarter cow for just $675 which, unfortunately, is about 75 more pounds of beef than my family of 5 is supposed to eat in a month. This means I need to find a friend who is willing to take a share in a cow. Preferably a friend that already owns a large meat freezer and knows what to do with marrow bones.
As it happens, I’ve got the perfect family in mind. A friend of mine married a big meat loving mid western guy whose choice of steak is always Flintstone sized. If anyone is up for a ¼ cow it will be him. Maybe even a ½ a cow. I might even be able to talk him into the cow/hog combo pack. In fact, I’m going to call him right now. This whole thing is actually turning out much better than I thought.
So in the interest of living longer and being a better person, I’ve decided to both cut back a little on my meat eating AND eat leaner, happier meats. At the same time, I’ll see what roots, shoots and berries are growing in my backyard, a la Caveman Diet. Might as well see if there’s anything to that virility claim.
If there is, I have a “haunch” that this approach will more than satisfy my husband, or will at least distract him while I grill-up the T-bones.
------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email online at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
Yesterday my husband told me that I eat too much red meat. Because I love my husband, I decided to take his concerns seriously. BUT, because I also love meat, (not quite as much as I love my husband, but close) I am determined to preserve and protect my meat centered lifestyle. I’m now desperately seeking a scientific justification for extreme carnivoredom. Not an easy task.
So I temporarily took the pork butt off the grill and began searching for nutritional proof that meat rules. What I found was the Caveman Diet - AKA Paleolithic Diet; Hunter-Gatherer or Stone Age Diet. This is an approach that supports my love for meat, but appears to be a completely idiotic way to live. But who am I to judge?
There are apparently many people, mostly macho hedge fund guys in NYC, who think that eating just meat, roots and berries will make them live longer and improve their virility. Since most cavemen never lived past age 17, I’m not sure how this could be right. On the other hand, you and I are living proof that there is something to the claim of improved virility.
Then I discovered the very disappointing fact that I’m only meant to consume 2.5 ounces of red meat per day. That’s total barbeque buzz kill. That’s like one teriyaki beef stick at a Chinese restaurant, or one sirloin cube from a kabob. You can’t even buy a steak that small. Unfortunately, every medical “association” in America seems to be on the same page when it comes to red meat. Too much is bad. But 2.5 ounces? I can’t live with that. I’ve got a 12 pound pork butt on the grill, and I’ve named it Bluebell.
There has to be a happy medium (or preferably, a happy medium rare.)
But then I thought, why give up my copious meat intake, when I can simply eat healthier meat? That’s when I found Slanker’s Grass Fed Meats of Texas. Lower in fat, higher in omega-3s, free range in the USA, hormone free, and raised by libertarians. Politics aside, I just found the scientific justification for my preferred lifestyle.
This is happy meat, vs. happy meals. I can get a quarter cow for just $675 which, unfortunately, is about 75 more pounds of beef than my family of 5 is supposed to eat in a month. This means I need to find a friend who is willing to take a share in a cow. Preferably a friend that already owns a large meat freezer and knows what to do with marrow bones.
As it happens, I’ve got the perfect family in mind. A friend of mine married a big meat loving mid western guy whose choice of steak is always Flintstone sized. If anyone is up for a ¼ cow it will be him. Maybe even a ½ a cow. I might even be able to talk him into the cow/hog combo pack. In fact, I’m going to call him right now. This whole thing is actually turning out much better than I thought.
So in the interest of living longer and being a better person, I’ve decided to both cut back a little on my meat eating AND eat leaner, happier meats. At the same time, I’ll see what roots, shoots and berries are growing in my backyard, a la Caveman Diet. Might as well see if there’s anything to that virility claim.
If there is, I have a “haunch” that this approach will more than satisfy my husband, or will at least distract him while I grill-up the T-bones.
------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email online at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
A Dingo Ate My Baby
Chuckle #408 | June 9th, 2010
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I secretly wish that my neighbor’s dogs will be eaten by coyotes. All five of them. I am not proud of feeling this way. This sentiment does not sit well with my Judeo-Christian upbringing. But you don’t know these dogs.
These are purse-size dogs. I think the neighbors had two when they moved in, but quickly accumulated more. I can’t see into their backyard very well from mine, but from what I can glimpse, the dogs appear to be a mixture of Toy Poodle, Bichon Frise, and Yorkies. It’s basically a kennel for obnoxious little purebreds.
These dogs are regularly placed in the backyard in a low playpen while the owners stay inside with their Bose Acoustic Noise-Dampening headphones. The dogs whine, cry, and complain. They are like colicky babies. No wonder my neighbors banish their pets to the backyard (where the rest of us can enjoy the cacophony.)
Unfortunately, the yapping of the tiny dogs makes my dog bark. My awesomely well behaved dog, who used to only bark once a day at a squirrel, will now stand in the corner of my backyard and bray endlessly at the 5 annoying dogs. If he’s hoping, as I am, that it will shut them up, it’s not working.
Now I have to yell at my dog so he doesn’t annoy my other neighbors. It’s just not fair.
Yesterday I got news that a coyote was spotted roaming our street. I immediately had Evil Thoughts. These Evil Thoughts involved a 5 course meal plucked by a hungry predator from a playpen full of annoying little designer dogs. The backyard could become a peaceful sanctuary, my personal Eden, once again. Or so whispered the devil seductively in my ear.
Hey, don’t condemn me just for wishful thinking. No prosecutor could convict. If you think about it from the coyote’s perspective, we are on their territory. The poor coyote is simply trying to survive in a world taken over by us humans without regard for the species we displace. If a coyote is presented with the “special of the day”, tastefully arranged and trapped in a pen, can you really expect him to chase a squirrel instead?
My thoughts exactly.
In fact, if you think about this for very long, like I did, you find yourself facing something of a moral dilemma. If you don’t agree, just take a look at some of those oil encrusted bird photos from the BP spill, and think about what we’ve done. I guarantee that you’ll start to feel sorry for the coyote. Guilty even. Responsible.
Yet, on “coyote day”, when I heard the neighbor dogs start to cry and wail, while mine went especially berserk, I hesitated only briefly before I dashed outside. Honestly. I grabbed a shovel as a weapon and leaped into the neighbor’s yard, ready to defend the little beasts.
The prix fixe menu of the day looked up at me dumbly, finally shocked into silence. There was no coyote, there was no threat. The dogs were just being especially whiny. At that point I could have wacked them with the shovel myself.
So in the end, years of religious school training combined with perfect attendance had the desired effect. I acted to protect the weak over the strong. I chose the interests of my species over another. Good triumphed over evil. Or did it? For some reason, I don’t feel quite right.
Next time I’m giving the coyote dibs. It’s only fair.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle online at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
I secretly wish that my neighbor’s dogs will be eaten by coyotes. All five of them. I am not proud of feeling this way. This sentiment does not sit well with my Judeo-Christian upbringing. But you don’t know these dogs.
These are purse-size dogs. I think the neighbors had two when they moved in, but quickly accumulated more. I can’t see into their backyard very well from mine, but from what I can glimpse, the dogs appear to be a mixture of Toy Poodle, Bichon Frise, and Yorkies. It’s basically a kennel for obnoxious little purebreds.
These dogs are regularly placed in the backyard in a low playpen while the owners stay inside with their Bose Acoustic Noise-Dampening headphones. The dogs whine, cry, and complain. They are like colicky babies. No wonder my neighbors banish their pets to the backyard (where the rest of us can enjoy the cacophony.)
Unfortunately, the yapping of the tiny dogs makes my dog bark. My awesomely well behaved dog, who used to only bark once a day at a squirrel, will now stand in the corner of my backyard and bray endlessly at the 5 annoying dogs. If he’s hoping, as I am, that it will shut them up, it’s not working.
Now I have to yell at my dog so he doesn’t annoy my other neighbors. It’s just not fair.
Yesterday I got news that a coyote was spotted roaming our street. I immediately had Evil Thoughts. These Evil Thoughts involved a 5 course meal plucked by a hungry predator from a playpen full of annoying little designer dogs. The backyard could become a peaceful sanctuary, my personal Eden, once again. Or so whispered the devil seductively in my ear.
Hey, don’t condemn me just for wishful thinking. No prosecutor could convict. If you think about it from the coyote’s perspective, we are on their territory. The poor coyote is simply trying to survive in a world taken over by us humans without regard for the species we displace. If a coyote is presented with the “special of the day”, tastefully arranged and trapped in a pen, can you really expect him to chase a squirrel instead?
My thoughts exactly.
In fact, if you think about this for very long, like I did, you find yourself facing something of a moral dilemma. If you don’t agree, just take a look at some of those oil encrusted bird photos from the BP spill, and think about what we’ve done. I guarantee that you’ll start to feel sorry for the coyote. Guilty even. Responsible.
Yet, on “coyote day”, when I heard the neighbor dogs start to cry and wail, while mine went especially berserk, I hesitated only briefly before I dashed outside. Honestly. I grabbed a shovel as a weapon and leaped into the neighbor’s yard, ready to defend the little beasts.
The prix fixe menu of the day looked up at me dumbly, finally shocked into silence. There was no coyote, there was no threat. The dogs were just being especially whiny. At that point I could have wacked them with the shovel myself.
So in the end, years of religious school training combined with perfect attendance had the desired effect. I acted to protect the weak over the strong. I chose the interests of my species over another. Good triumphed over evil. Or did it? For some reason, I don’t feel quite right.
Next time I’m giving the coyote dibs. It’s only fair.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle online at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
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