Showing newest posts with label family. Show older posts
Showing newest posts with label family. Show older posts

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Ripoff!

My $130.00+ math book does not, in fact, speak the answers to me...or come with a built-in calculator, even. Ripoff! The good news is that, because this edition is brand new (it's copyrighted 2010, if you can believe it), I can pass on said textbook to one of my brothers should he decide to take the same course. (He might...he has to have math classes to fulfill his degree plan, and this would be a free book to him.)

Another ripoff of late: Scrabble Slam. This card game sucks. You have to use both sides of the playing card, for starters, because there's either a letter or a blank printed on each side. Also, you have to deal out all of the cards at the beginning of the game. That would be fine if you had at least four players but, with fewer, there are just too many cards to hold AND see clearly.

Oh, and the basic premise is to change the current, four-letter word to some other, four-letter word, and do it quickly - you race against the other players instead of taking turns like civilized adults. Mom and I are in complete agreement that this was a big, fat waste of my five dollars. Too bad, because I was really hoping to be able to kick Mom's butt at SOMETHING even LOOSELY related to Scrabble.

On the other hand: the dice version of Phase 10 is a lot of fun. If you like Yahtzee! and Phase Ten, consider this to be their unholy lovechild. A lovechild with a mostly-useless score pad (the sections are really, really tiny), but a fun lovechild nonetheless.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

VBS...over...finally...

Vacation Bible School is over! Yay! Our church is very small, and had only about a dozen kids every evening, but we’re all exhausted anyway. My feet are worn right out from standing in the kitchen every evening for a few hours straight, and I will be thrilled if I never see some of those bratty kids again.

We had Spoiled Brat, the nine-year-old who resorts to bawling when she doesn’t get her way. She threw fits throughout the week because the adults kept telling her “No” – and most of us made it stick. She wasn’t allowed to get into the dunking booth on Family Night because she’s too small. When she tried to get in after being told “No” more than once, by more than one adult, someone saw her and told her to get down. She was bawling before her feet touched the grass.

There was Jerk, the ten-year-old brat who went into the kitchen after I’d already closed down everything. He’d been given a sno-cone during his snack break, just like everyone else, but wanted another one. Having been told “No” already, he decided to sneak in. I caught him with the bag of ice out on the counter and a Sytrofoam cup in one hand.

Even if I didn’t care that he was trying to pull an end run on me, we were borrowing an industrial sno-cone machine. Those suckers, in case you don’t know, are pretty sweet. They have lots of sharp blades inside and a large, electric motor to turn them. Like I really want to hose Jerk’s blood and bits of finger and bone out of the sno-cone machine.

Most of the helpers had at least one run in with Monster from Hell, the ten-year-old boy who did everything he could to piss off everyone. He trash talked his age group’s leader. During prayers, he stepped on peoples’ feet and made faces at the adults. When he wasn’t busy doing these things, he was running around like a monkey on crack, finding small objects to put in his mouth. The adults finally had enough when he started putting brads – the metal bits that you use to put pieces of paper together if you want to, say, make a fake clock with movable hands to teach your child how to tell time – in his mouth. Like anyone at the church really wants to rush this monster to the emergency room for surgery.

None of this seems too bad, I know, but we all put up with it every night for a week straight. All of the bratty kids were pulling their stunts at once, too, which made it kind of difficult to keep an eye on everyone. All of the helpers had both hands full pretty much nonstop, and it gets tiring after the first evening or so.

But to be completely honest, I’m not annoyed at the kids so much as I am at their so-called parents. I’m not a mother, and have no desire to become one later. But I know many, many parents, and the ones who really love their kids take the time to teach them that “No” means “No.” The kids who are truly loved are taught to obey their parents, and to be respectful. They’re taught that they aren’t special enough to circumvent social courtesies like waiting their turn and throwing away their empty cups after snack time. Their parents really care about them, and this is evident by the fact that these adults spend so much time and effort teaching the kids how to be functional, welcomed members of society.

Then you have the parents who just don’t care enough about their kids to do much beyond yelling, or making threats that never stick. I saw a lot of these unloved kids all week long, and I feel a little sorry for them even though they did nothing but tick me off.

My sibs and I are blessed because Mom loved us so much when we were kids – and she still loves us. She spanked us when we disobeyed her. She took away things that we loved when we didn’t do what we knew was right. She told us that she loved us at least once every day, and she made sure that we all had everything that we needed. Mom did a lot of great things for us all, but I think that the best thing she did for me personally was to make her “No” stick almost every time.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Things Mom Does Better Than I Ever Will

Mom has this aggravating habit of being better than I am at, well, everything. Except, maybe, blogging, but only because she doesn’t have a blog. Now that I’ve written that, she’ll probably go get a blog, come into my bedroom, and force me to add her to my blogroll at fingernail point. (Seriously – she has these wickedly-sharp fingernails. Just waving them within five inches of my face is enough to make me do pretty much anything she wants.)

Scrabble
I was eleven or twelve when Mom brought home a brand-new Scrabble board and asked if I wanted to learn how to play. She explained the basic concept of the game, then slapped a fake-wood rack down in front of me and told me to draw seven tiles. While she chain smoked – and, by the way, got cigarette ashes all over the board, which is totally like just about every other activity we did together when I was growing up – I tried to figure out what I was going to do with a rack full of vowels. Seriously: How do you make a word with E-I-E-I-O-U-U? (Keep in mind that I wasn’t even a teenager at the time and, therefore, did not see diddly squat in that rack. Actually? I still don’t. Because, despite lots of Scrabble playing over the years, I still kind of suck at this game.)

I tried “Oui.”

“That’s, uh, French or something," I said when Mom raised her eyebrows into her hairline.

“We’re Americans. Use a real word.”

“But it IS a real word.”

“Not in this country it isn’t.”

Oh, and she didn’t tell me that I could exchange tiles. Oh, no. She sprang that on me a few plays later, when she said, “Exchange four,” and neglected to put down a word.

“Hey! You can do that?”

“Uh, yeah,” she said, in her, “If I were being any more sarcastic, the awesomeness of my sheer talent would melt your preadolescent face,” tone.

“You never said anything about trading tiles.”

“Well, now you know.”

Soon, it became very obvious that Mom had no intention of going easy on me. She had never, in my life, soft pedaled where games were concerned. You either beat her fair and square or lost. Why? Because she didn’t want to insult you, that’s why. The one time I kicked her butt at chess, I knew that I had earned the victory. And believe me, legitimately beating up your Mom’s chess pieces is way cooler than winning because she threw the match.

While I stuck to the few words that I actually knew back then, Mom let loose all of the words that she’d picked up over the decades. I was playing crap like “kick” and “forge,” while she was laying down epics like “ballooning” and “xylophone.” The final score was…well…lopsided at best, considering that she had three digits to my two.

This butt stomping continued throughout my teen years. Even though my vocabulary kept growing, and even though I eventually found enough brains to read the “Q without U words” suggestions printed on the inside of the Scrabble box’s lid, Mom kept improving her game at the same time. She laid down things that couldn’t possibly be real words. “Ti”? What was that? (A tree, or something, apparently. And really a word, at least according to the folks who produce the Scrabble dictionary.)

Even now, I can whip up on her only when she has a migraine. And that’s because I challenge the gibberish that she lays down. Sorry, but “aaoiuer” isn’t a word, at least not in English.

The nice thing about Mom, though, is that she’s a gracious winner. The phrase, “In your FACE, weenie child o’ mine!” has escaped her mouth only once, and that was only because we were wagering on the game's outcome. (I had to do dishes because she whipped up on me. Had I won, she would have given me...fifty cents.)

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Sorry, Folks

I know that I've been neglecting the ol' blog, and I'm really sorry for that. Life has been, well, busy lately.

The family and I took a road trip to visit Grandma earlier this week. She's in what's called a "mind-care" facility, which is a polite way of saying that Grandma, and the other residents, have Alzheimer's. We can't utter that nasty A-word, though, because it terrifies those of us who know what it really means. Including Grandma, who still has good days - and, during these periods, knows what's been, and what's coming, because she saw her own mother, who also had Alzheimer's.

What really bothers me - aside from the fear, that is - is the shame that surrounds this disease. Grandma knew, YEARS AGO, that she had Alzheimer's...but nobody in the family discovered this fact until recently (within the last couple of years, I believe). Having seen her own mom suffer the same disease, Grandma was ashamed of what she knew was going to happen in the future. She didn't want any of us to know. I don't blame her, because I'm sure that I would want to have some semblance of control if I were in her position. Maybe keeping the secret was all that she knew to do.

But I AM ticked off that anyone on this planet would, for even a nanosecond, be ashamed of something that isn't his or her fault. It's not like Alzheimer's is your punishment for whaling on your kid, or drinking a jug of moonshine and mowing down pedestrians with your F350. There's a massive difference between being a tool and being sick.

Grandma enjoyed having us around, though, which is awesome. We got to just sit and talk, and listen, to each other. In addition to Mom, most of my sibs, and myself, two of my aunts were there, along with Kid Sis' boyfriend. So, yeah, there was a nice little group at the facility for a few hours. Grandma seemed to enjoy herself, even if she couldn't quite remember most of us. We reintroduced ourselves every so often, and that was that.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother's Day to all of the moms out there, especially my own.

Ahh, Mom. What can you say about her that won't get you slapped upside the head with a cast-iron frying pan? Would it really be Mother's Day here at my house without the distinctive BONG! that my sibs and I know and love? Of course not.

She whips up on me at Scrabble 99.999 percent of the time, sure. (The rest of the time, she has a migraine, so I win by challenging words like "aqwoer" and "paweroi.") Sometimes, her evilness scares me - like when she realized that she could just dump the corpses of those who anger her into the septic tank instead of making the effort to dig a shallow grave. And every now and then, she takes the very-last piece of chocolate in the entire house.

But those things just make her even more awesome.

So, Mom, Happy Mother's Day.

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Friday, April 10, 2009

Holidays; Candy

Have a wonderful Good Friday and Easter, everyone. I'm slightly disappointed because Mom renewed the Peep Control Act of 2006 for yet another year. Sigh. Just because I brought home twelve boxes of Peeps the day after Easter ONE time...and just because half of those Peeps were still festering in her cupboard when I brought home a buttload of Halloween Peeps...well...that doesn't give her the right to ban them, does it? Apparently, it does.

Oh, well. I'll just have to enjoy my sickly-sweet, pure-sugar treats vicariously...as usual:

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Hi, Mom!

Everyone, we have a very-special reader on board today. Give a lil' wave of the hand to Mom, a.k.a. "But Mooooommmmm, All The COOL Gunnies are Getting Mossbergs for THEIR Birthdays!"

She's not likely to leave any comments for us, so here are a few of her most-memorable utterances to date.

"If you can't beat 'em, you're obviously using the wrong tool. Go get a piece of radiator hose."

"This is a dictatorship. I am the dictator. Just because I'm benevolent on Christmas and your birthdays does not mean that I'm letting my regime get soft and weak."

"I'm not above blackmail. Do what I tell you or I WILL circulate that Easter photo of you in a skirt."

"I really don't like kids...except my own. I love you guys. Especially when you bring me chocolate. Speaking of which..."

"Did I have a dinosaur crossing when I was in grade school? Ha-ha, Sarah, very funny. But yeah, I did, and I was almost crushed by an out-of-control T-Rex one day. Boy, that definitely taught me to look both ways before crossing the tar pits."

Monday, March 30, 2009

Games We Are No Longer Allowed to Play

Mom hates when my sibs and I use our imaginations. This was very true when we were children and our little minds were slowly developing. You would think that Mom would have encouraged us to imagine, to pretend, to explore and interact with each other, but you’re wrong.

There is, to this day, a rather-long list of games we are no longer allowed to play – because Mom instituted a lifetime ban on all of these, for one reason or another. Why? Because she’s mean, that’s why.

The Hitting Game
When we were teenagers, Middle Brother came into the living room and made an announcement.

MB: I’ve invented a new game.
Me: Yeah? What is it?
MB: It’s called “The Hitting Game,” and the rules are…well…there really aren’t any rules.
Me: There have to be rules. Otherwise, it’s not a game. It’s just us hitting each other.
MB: Oh. Good point.


So, MB concocted the only two rules that The Hitting Game ever needed.

One: We had to warn each other that the punch was coming.
Two: If the victim blocked a punch, he or she got two free shots.

It was understood, without need to say anything aloud, that we would limit our punches to each other’s upper arms. Obviously, hitting each other in the face would have been crazy. Bicep bruises, on the other hand, are just cool.

So there we were, a couple of weeks after MB invented The Hitting Game, hanging out in the living room like the adolescent slugs that we were.

MB: Hope it hurts! [Yelled as his fist connects with my bicep.]
Me: Ow! You suck.
Another Brother: Incoming! [Shouted half a second before his fist collides with MB’s arm.]
MB: Ow! Now you suck.
Me: Duck! [I believe that my knuckles bashed into MB’s bicep right as I finished yelling this.]


Mom, who was trying to read – oh, yeah, her life was insanely exciting when she was trying to rear all five of us – closed her book and walked into the living room.

Mom: That’s IT! I am SICK and TIRED of this game. There will be NO more Hitting Game EVER.
Me: Ever?
Mom: EVER. Not even when you’re all as old and decrepit as I am.
MB: Aww, fine. Hey, guys, I just invented something. It’s called The Punching Game, and-
Mom: NO. No Hitting Game, no Punching Game, no Kicking Game, no Frogging Game, no Indian Burn Game, no Maiming Game, NOTHING.


After the briefest of pauses, during which MB came down with a case of the giggles, Mom realized that he was thinking of a loophole in her previous, seemingly-all-encompassing statement.

Mom: Oh, and that includes The Circle Game. NO GAMES THAT INVOLVE ANY SORT OF BODILY CONTACT WITH EACH OTHER. NONE. AT ALL. EVER.
MB: Crap!


Acting
My sibs and I are no longer allowed to let our inner actors and actresses shine. We’ve been banished from amateur theater for life, because our Mom is a mean person who, apparently, despises drama.

Or maybe she banned acting because my sibs and I got the idea to pretend that we were heroin addicts going through withdrawals. While we were shopping at Walmart. On a weekday, right after the senior citizens received, and cashed, their Social Security checks and flooded the store.

Apparently, twitching and demanding chocolate in a screeching, wailing voice is not amusing. I would disagree, of course.

However, Mom made her position very clear by grabbing my arm and hissing, “You will NOT embarrass me” right in my ear. When she gets pissed off, she spits. The saliva just sprays everywhere when she’s hissing, or yelling, or even just talking if she’s angry enough. So I ended up with a rather-slimy ear hole and a very-strong urge to give up acting forever.

Twenty Questions
Why, you ask, are the now-adult offspring in my family no longer allowed to play a simple question-and-answer game? What in the world would our dear mother have against this interactive, interesting, amusing way to pass the time?

Well…you see…it all started when the five of us decided to play this amusing game on a road trip to San Antonio. This is a 300-mile (one way) drive, which takes Mom about six hours. More if she gets stuck in Austin traffic, which happens just about every time because Austin, like Mom’s driving, moves way too slowly.

The problem with twenty questions was that my sibs and I were blatant, obnoxious cheaters. Unless you have flawless integrity, it’s rather easy to change the correct answer, right? Of course. If I started off thinking of a cow, and one of my sibs guessed that I was thinking of a cow, I would tell him or her “Nope” and start thinking of a horse.

In all fairness: my sibs did this right back to me, which was fine because this made the game more fun. When one of us was almost 100 percent certain that another sib was cheating, the accusations – and, eventually, the fists of doom – flew.

Sib: You’re cheating!
Me: No, I’m not.
Sib: Yes, you are! You couldn’t have been thinking about a horse the whole time.
Me: Yeah, I was.
Sib: No, you weren’t. I asked if the animal was edible and you said “no.”
Me: French people eat horse all the time.
Sib: You suck!


Then, I got punched right in the arm, and Mom decided that she’d had enough of this stupid game.

Mom: Let’s play the Shut the Hell Up game.
Me: How do we play that?
Mom: You all shut the hell up until we get to San Antonio or I’m dropping you off at the next exit.
Me: Can we have some money for a movie if you do that?
Mom: No!


So…if my imagination is stunted for life, you can blame it all on my Mom. This is obviously her fault, you know.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Range Time Yesterday

For the first time in a few weeks (okay, it was more than a month) I managed to get out to the range yesterday. We took the AR-15 and the .45s. And by "we," I mean Mom, Youngest Bro. and me.

Rifle time was fun as always. We had a really short session with that, though, because we all wanted to put some .45 ACP down range. I feel that, if I'm going to carry that handgun, I'd best keep in shape. This, of course, means routine practice.

I could lie and tell you all that every shot went right through the center of the silhouette's x-ring, but you would all call me out in the comments section. Everything stayed in the rings, though, at 30-35 feet, so I'm satisfied.

We learned a few important things yesterday, though.

One: Dad's reloads are very consistent. He's getting pretty good at this. The rounds that we put down range yesterday were accurate, well within factory tolerances, and just plain fun to shoot. We didn't have any squibs or hot rounds at all in any of the .45s that we took.

Two: Mom is a very-accurate shot with an AR-15. We will not be messing with her nearly as much now that we have witnessed this. Especially since we showed her how to load the magazine and cock the rifle. Eep.

Three: Carry guns attract lint almost as quickly as the dryer's screen does. Holy cow. I haven't given my carry gun a thorough cleaning in about a month and a half. It's...wow. It's nice and clean now, but I spent a good fifteen minutes cleaning out the part of the gun that doesn't ride in the holster. It seems that my shirts deposit quite a bit of lint when I'm carrying. Oh, well.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Wow...That Sucks.

My middle brother's a contract laborer. He doesn't have a company or anything like that - just works for an employer who doesn't want to cough up half of the employee-related taxes, that's all.

Bro. just did his taxes yesterday.

And is still shrieking.

Because this year...even though he made an average of one thousand dollars a month...he owes more than two thousand dollars in taxes. This is quite a bit more than the few hundred or so that he paid this time last year.

He's none too happy about this huge increase...and I can't say that I blame him. But, hey...this is what happens when politicians can't figure out that, when they don't have enough money to fund all their little programs and other crap, they need to reduce their spending.

So...if you hear the distinct POP! of somebody's head a'splodin' somewhere in Texas, it's probably his.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Spring Break! YEAH!

Spring Break started (for me, that is) today. I'm officially off school until the Tuesday after next. Woohoo!

Unfortunately, my Mom doesn't quite understand this yearly holiday.

Mom: Oh, so you're on Spring Break now?
Me: YESSSSSS! (Awkward, but jubilant, dancing.)
Mom: Good. You can help me with the cleaning.
Me: No. It's Spring Break, not Spring Cleaning.
Mom: No. It's Spring Break from school. You can still help me around the house.
Me: BREAK.
Mom: Yes. Break from SCHOOL.

We're both speaking English, but I don't think that we're both having the same conversation.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Dear Alzheimer's

Dear Alzheimer's:

Die in a grease fire.

Sincerely,

Me

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Strangeness Abounds

The other night, Youngest Bro and his girlfriend went out for dinner. They got pizza, but didn’t eat the whole thing. The leftovers stayed in the back seat of YB’s car, along with their bread sticks, while they went into Walmart to do whatever it is that you do in Walmart when you’re out on a date.

When YB and The Girlfriend went back to the car afterward, they noticed that one of the car’s doors was slightly ajar. Further investigation revealed that the door was open because a pizza thief had opened it, swiped all of their leftover food, and left – all before they returned to the car.

The good news is that The Girlfriend’s purse was not on the floorboard, where she normally leaves the thing when she goes into a store. That night, for whatever reason, she decided to secure the purse in YB’s trunk before going into Walmart. Good for her.

The family and I agree that, if the person who swiped the pizza and breadsticks was hungry, then it’s a sad situation indeed. If that’s the case, our prayer is that the individual is able to find a job, or whatever he or she needs to obtain food without lurking in parking lots, hoping to get lucky. We’ve been hungry before, and don’t want to see other people in the same situation.

On the other hand: if the theft was one of those random, jerky things that delinquents do when they’re bored, we all hope that the sack of crap gets diarrhea for a week straight, with a burning bunghole that doesn’t quit.

The next day, my oldest brother called home to tell us that, the night before, he had stopped at Walmart – the one in his entirely-different part of the state – because he saw a car catch on fire in the lot. He jumped out of his truck to be sure that everyone in the vehicle had gotten out okay. In the middle of doing this random, decent thing, OB heard the distinct sound of his pickup leaving the location.

He turned around to see it being driven off. Because he, not thinking about anything but the people in the vehicle that had just caught on fire, didn’t turn off the engine and take the keys with him. I wouldn’t have either, I don’t think.

The good news is that the police found the truck a few miles away, unharmed. The bad news is that they couldn’t find the keys. OB’s keychain had his truck and apartment keys on it. His insurance card, in the glove box, has his address printed right on the front. So, he’s having both his truck and apartment locks changed.

This is just weird, though, folks, because both of these things happened on the same night, in different parts of Texas, but to the same family. Weirdness. Is it a full moon? Halloween? Or just another one of those weird spells that happen to some people?

Friday, January 16, 2009

Weird Conversations with Mom

My Mom and I really need to get out more.

Mom: I have two choices for you.
Me: I choose “Cleveland.”
Mom: “Cleveland” is “Do the dishes.”
Me: Then I choose “Springfield.”
Mom: Good. “Springfield” is “Make dinner.”
Me: “Austin.”
Mom: “Do dishes and make dinner.”
Me: “Los Angeles.”
Mom: “Clean the bathroom.”
Me: Fine. “Akron.”
Mom: “Clean the kitchen.”
Me: Which option is “Go play online” anyway?
Mom: None.
Me: I give up. I’ll go with “Springfield.”
Mom: Good choice. The good knives are in the dish drainer.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

No Thanks, Dad

My Dad and I were in the living room this morning, with the TV turned on, when a story reported that the FBI is looking to fill a few thousand positions.

Dad: You should do that, Sarah.
Me: I don't think so.
Dad: Yeah, you should.
Me: I read somewhere that you have to do twenty-five push-ups in a row, without pausing, to pass. I hate push-ups.
Dad: So? We'll get some metal and make you some Robocop arms. No problem.
Me: Uh, Dad? Remember when you went into the Army and took your physical? The FBI probably does the same thing. I think they'd notice.
Dad: Just wear long sleeves.
Me: No. Just...no.
Dad: They let you carry a gun.

Mom: Actually? They MAKE you carry a gun.
Me: Everywhere?
Mom: Everywhere.
Me: I already do that.
Mom: True.

Dad: Oh, come on. It would be a great career.
Me: Oh, yeah. I can picture my employment application now. "List your dislikes: The Bill of Rights; properly-obtained warrants; the Weaver family..." If I work for any federal agency, it'll be either the Post Office or the CIA.
Dad: The CIA?
Me: Yeah. I'm down with assassinating terrorists.
Dad: That's my girl!

Sometimes, I think that my Dad dropped wayyyyyyy too much acid when he was my age.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Crybaby Parents and Tight Toy Budgets

Today, we have a graph-by-graph snarkfest, courtesy of a group of parents who don't understand what "No" means - much less how to teach this concept to their offspring.

Meltdown fallout: some parents rethink toy-buying
By DAVID CRARY, AP National Writer

NEW YORK – In a season that inspires earnest letters about toys, one notable batch is being sent not by kids to Santa's workshop but by parents to the executive suites of real-world toy makers.

The letter-writing initiative was launched by the Boston-based Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood, which says roughly 1,400 of its members and supporters have contacted 24 leading toy companies and retailers to express concern about ads aimed at kids.


Novel idea: Turn off the TV. The fewer hours your offspring spend planted on the couch, the fewer commercials they'll watch. Get your butt off the Internet and go play with your kids for a change. It won't kill you. I promise. Your all-important video games, e-mail, and IM sessions will still be there later. Trust me.

"Unfortunately, I will not be able to purchase many of the toys that my sons have asked for; we simply don't have the money," wrote Todd Helmkamp of Hudson, Ind. "By bombarding them with advertisements ... you are placing parents like me in the unenviable position of having to tell our children that we can't afford the toys you promote."


Because you, the parent, have no control over what your children watch, right? Toy marketers force you to make your kids watch TV, right? Of course. Those evil toy companies.

Again: Turn off the idiot box. There are far more creative, productive ways to have fun, and they don't involve these evil advertisements that you're so upset about.

The Toy Industry Association has responded with a firm defense of current marketing practices, asserting that children "are a vital part of the gift selection process."


Of course children are vital. They're the ones who will unwrap, and play with, the toys on Christmas Day. They're the gift recipients, so what they prefer is a huge part of deciding which toys to buy, or not buy.

"If children are not aware of what is new and available, how will they be able to tell their families what their preferences are?" an industry statement said. "While there is certainly greater economic disturbance going on now, families have always faced different levels of economic well-being and have managed to tailor their spending to their means."


Right. In the past, parents had this talk with their kids. It went something like this: "Honey, Santa can't fit all of these toys in his sleigh. He has to have room for other kids and their presents. Don't expect everything on your list to be here on Christmas Day. Now, let's go make some hot chocolate."

That's a long, elegant version of "No," but it works rather well, especially if you back it up with action. Don't tell your kid "No," then max out your Visa to get him everything that his little heart desires.

In recent conference calls with investors, toy company executives said they expect to suffer some holiday-season impact from the economic crisis, yet suggested their industry would be more resilient than many other sectors. The toy industry is commonly viewed as recession-resistant, due largely to the parent-child dynamic.


In other words: as long as spineless parents have credit cards and don't understand the power of "No," they'll continue buying every little thing their children want for Christmas. Appeasing the shortest people in the household really makes sense, considering that they're the ones who earn the money, and because they're so capable of, like, beating you up if you don't keep them happy. Who's running the asylum again?

"Parents have trouble saying no," said Allison Pugh, a University of Virginia sociology professor. She says parents often buy toys to avoid guilt and ensure their children feel in sync with school classmates.


Jimmy and Susie will make fun of my child if she doesn't have that doll. They'll tease my son if he doesn't get the new truck that all the other boys want. I'm proud to teach my children that, to fit in and be accepted, they have to be just like everyone else. Oh, my goodness - everything I just said has a bleating sound at the end of it. What's a "sheeple"?

"Even under circumstances of dire financial straits, that's the last thing parents give up," said Pugh. "They'll contain their own buying for themselves before they'll make their child feel different at school."


Because, you know, FEEEELINGS are everything. Let's not teach children that a) it's okay to be different, and b) they can stand up for themselves if brats want to make fun of them. Heaven forbid we rear a generation of resilient individuals, versus bleating sheep.

Amanda Almodovar says she encounters such families in her work as an elementary school social worker in Alamance County, N.C., where homelessness and unemployment are rising.


That sucks. Being unemployed and/or homeless has to blow. Seriously.

"I had one parent who said she'd prostitute herself to get what her child wants," Almodovar said. "It's heartbreaking. They feel inadequate as parents.


Because goodness knows that Susie will feel better about her Mom being a hooker if she has that new doll. Way to destroy the family, skank. This isn't really about the kid's feelings. If it were, Mommy the Streetwalker wouldn't even consider prostitution - as that has a nasty mental effect on the kids. Mommy Dearest is concerned about HER feelings, and how her children see HER - not about their well being. Selfish skank.

"I try to tell them, worry about your home, your heating bill — but they're the ones who have to look into children's faces, the children saying 'I want this, I want that.'"


The heating bill? Pfft. Susie and Jimmy can play with their new Wii in the cold. They might shiver, and catch pneumonia if I let the heat stay off too long, but by God, they'll love me.

Even in some households not in fiscal crisis, there's a sense that this holiday season is different.


Ya think?

John Schenkenfelder, a financial adviser and father of three in Louisville, Ky., wrote a blog entry this month urging families to scale down their gift-giving and spend more time playing together.


A brilliant idea. I don't have 99 percent of the things that my family bought for me when I was a child. But I remember quite a few of the cool things that we did together. We built tree houses, played card games, played marbles, et cetera. The time that we spend with our loved ones stays with us a lot longer than the consumer goods. Especially the cheaply-made, Chinese garbage. That stuff breaks even before Jimmy and Susie can run up the street to shove their Christmas loot in their neighbors' faces.

"This has been bugging me for years, even when times were great," Schenkenfelder said in a telephone interview. "Maybe people will get it this year — they're so unprepared for this debacle. They're shell-shocked."


Yeah, this year has been kind of weird for many of us. However, why aren't parents saying "No" to their children even when times are good? Doesn't this object lesson apply regardless of how much, or little, is in Mom and Dad's bank account? Of course it does. But it's easier to indulge the little bratlings, and turn them into big brats later in life, when you can just swipe your debit card and not worry about the consequences, right?

In Columbus, Ohio, Erin Beth Dower Charron has been trying to brace her 4-year-old son and 8-year-old daughter for more subdued gift-getting this year as the family begins financial belt-tightening.


"Brace" them? Why? If you were doing your job, they'd already know what "No" means. They're four and eight: old enough to have a little self control, and understand that they can't get everything that they want.

Unless, of course, neither of them have been told "No," often, if at all. Oh, man, they're going to grow up to be those really annoying, whiny coworkers who throw toddler-like tantrums when the boss tells them that they can't switch schedules with a coworker. Great. Thank you so much for inflicting that on us.

"My 8-year-old is still holding out hope that Santa will get her that one special gift, but understanding this year may be different," Dower Charron said. "My son doesn't understand. Everything he sees, he wants."


Yes, well. I want all sorts of things too, but somebody took the time to teach me that I don't get everything I want.

Toy ads on kids' TV shows make the process harder, she said. "The onslaught seems to be more intense this year."


Of course the marketers are trying harder this year. They want to keep their doors open! And their customers (toy makers) want to stay in business. Obviously, with the economy being weaker than it was just a few years ago, companies are trying harder to land sales.

Dower Charron was among the hundreds of parents who took up the suggestion to write to toy companies.


Oxygen thief.

"Help me understand why your toy is the better one for my child, and why it should be one of the few I can afford," she wrote. "Don't leave that up to my children."


Don't leave the decision to your kids? Hello, lady! That's your job already - to decide what to buy for your kids. You're the one who's leaving the choice up to them by catering to their whims.

The director of the Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood, psychologist Susan Linn, said she and her colleagues don't expect toy companies to stop advertising — rather, they want the ads directed at parents.


Why? The toys are for the kids, right? Why would advertisers target parents?

"It's cruel to dangle irresistible ads for toys and electronics in front of kids — encouraging them to nag for gifts that their parents can't afford," she said. "It's just not fair."


Wah, wah, wah. I see irresistible ads every day. Advertisers want me to buy all sorts of neat things - new computers, plasma-screen TVs, luxury SUVs, nice firearms. I want all of those things, but you don't see me crying about how unfair it is that I can't have everything that I see on TV.

The big toy makers aren't likely to redirect their ads for one fundamental reason, according to Richard Gottlieb, a New York-based consultant to the industry.

"Toy companies advertise to children because it works, to be brutally honest," Gottlieb said in an interview.


Well, duh. Advertising to children is legal and effective. Why change tactics when things are working just fine as they are?

Gottlieb also contends that it's good for children to encounter toy ads — even in cases where products later turn out to be disappointments.

"It teaches, for very low stakes, how to navigate in our consumer culture," he said.

"They are going to have to spend the rest of their lives listening to every kind of marketing approach, and childhood is where they will learn to cope with it."


Exactly. That's a huge point. Kids are miniature consumers. As they grow up and earn/spend their own money, they'll be big consumers like you and me. The sooner they learn about impulse control, and making good buying decisions, the less likely they are to end up in major debt.

As for the economic pressure on parents, Gottlieb sounds a fatalistic note.

"Believe me, there are families with much bigger issues on their plates right now then worrying about whether their child will be unhappy because they did not get a particular toy," Gottlieb wrote in his "Out of the Toy Box" blog. "Delivering disappointment goes with the job of parenting."


Thank you, Mr. Gottlieb. Thank you for a simple, logical and truthful response to all this. You, sir, have a brain, and are apparently using it. May I clone you?

Friday, November 28, 2008

Black Friday Report

I did not leave the house today. It's Black Friday: you're insane if you think that I'm going to leave this warm, safe house and fruitlessly attempt to shove through packed crowds in search of sale-priced crap that I don't really want or need.

Instead, I slept in and leisurely strolled into the kitchen at around eleven in the morning. We were getting some rain, and it was a bit chilly outside, so I was immediately glad that I'd maintained my tradition of Staying the Hell Home on the Worst Shopping Day of the Year.

One of my brothers, however, was conned into taking his girlfriend out to hit the "door buster" sales. Here is his report:

He awoke at three-thirty this morning, dragged himself out of bed, and drove to his girlfriend's house. After picking her up, they made it to the first store at the unholy time of four-thirty a.m. Our sister, who works at this store, was not scheduled to work until the afternoon, so she was just as cozy and warm in her bed as I was in mine when Bro. ventured forth into public.

Bro. found a good parking spot, about halfway between the store and the road. The closer spots were already crammed full of early-bird shoppers, all too insane to just stay at home and be comfortable like I was.

When Bro. and Girlfriend went into the store, they could not find a shopping cart. They saw several people pushing one empty cart and pulling another one behind them. They were gearing up for five a.m., when the sales started.

The store was, of course, packed. The couple could barely squeeze through to the small appliances, or to the picture frames, or to anything else that was on sale. This happened despite the fact that the store, in preparation for the crazy-low prices on these specific items, had dumped pallets crammed full of these things in the middle of the larger aisles. Despite all this extra space, and ease of access, the couple could not see around the crowd. They were swiftly enveloped, and stuck there, navigating as one homogenous lump of flesh and hair.

Other shoppers, who were already waiting for the sale to begin, circled the pallets with their carts. If you were late to the party, you could not work your way in to grab the sale items. The earliest of the early birds had created walls of carts, with their own bodies between the carts and the goods. Heaven forbid somebody else also get the chance to grab those $1.50 bath towels that mean oh so very much.

At precisely five a.m., the store's intercom announced the time. At that moment, Bro. said, "Everyone started grabbing boxes from the pallets and throwing them into their carts. All at once." He said that the sound nearly deafened him.

However, Bro. and his girlfriend were able to acquire the few items that were on their respective lists. Bro. came home with a nice stand mixer for our mother, who is prone to breaking lesser mixers (she makes lots of cookies, bread, cinnamon rolls, et cetera - the "regular" mixers die under the strain). The girlfriend got her...whatever she wanted.

They were in the store, though, for a total of two hours, because nothing happened quickly. Standing in line to check out took forever. Trying to work their way to the checkout took forever. Navigating the crowd of shoppers on the way back to the vehicle took forever.

When the happy couple left the store, people were parking in the side street between the store and the neighboring strip mall. The actual lot was completely packed, and not showing any signs of emptying.

That's why I shop online, or well before Christmas, folks. I despise crowds, and I loathe the elbowing, shoving and "me first" attitude that Black Friday sales foster. That, and I'm too polite to barge through a line of elderly people to get a friggin' bath towel.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Happy Turkey Day, 'Merrycans!

Have a great Turkey Day, everybody. Even if you aren't American, have a good time anyway.

We'll be celebrating later in the week, when the last of The Sibs come into town. Good stuff. It's supposed to be warmer the day he comes back anyway. Good turkey-and-shooting weather, you know.

However, we did go to the grocery store tonight to be sure that we got all of the necessities for dinner. By "we" I mean one of my brothers and me. Mom, mysteriously, did not feel like going, so she sent us instead. This strange illness, which was not well defined, struck just before we were scheduled to walk out the door. Odd, really, but what are you going to do? I certainly am not going to argue with that lady. She scares me, quite frankly, and I want to be on her bad side about as much as I want to rip out my toenails.

So there we were, in this overcrowded store, trying to get a cart full of stuff to turn into Thanksgiving dinner later in the week. During the hour and half that Bro and I were in this store, we:

* Pondered running over one child, who appeared to be between ten and twelve years old (read: old enough to know better). Why? Because she darted in front of us, shouldered our shopping cart out of her way (even though I was trying to push said cart at the time) and just kept on rolling. Kid, I hope that Santa Claus leaves reindeer nuggets in your stocking this year, and every year until you learn the phrase "Excuse me."

* Had to call Mom for a backup plan because the store was completely out of corn starch. Completely out. Seriously. That entire section of the shelf contained only a thick layer of corn starch dust, which I briefly considered sweeping into one of the plastic bags from the produce department and taking home to Mom. (Despite the fact that this would end in my death.)

* Marveled at the sheer number of idiots who, despite the aisles being crammed full of busy shoppers, parked their carts right in the middle of the main aisles to yak with other people. Hey, morons. We're trying to get through here. Take your conversation somewhere else. Yes, I know that you haven't seen your fellow emo kid since high school (which was, like, LAST WEEK), but get out of the way.

* Snagged two of the last four cans of whole cranberries. Yeah! None of that jellied, "takes the shape of the can" garbage around here!

And that's why I despise grocery shopping.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

The Useful Sibling

When my four siblings and I were but wee little'uns, Youngest Bro had a speech impediment. Despite his inability to properly pronounce a good one-fourth of the sounds in our language, the little guy loved to talk. He'd speak with just about anybody, including strangers, if given the chance. The rest of us quietly, politely stepped in to act as interpreters whenever the adult in question got the furrowed "What did he just say?" brow going.

One of our mother's most-used phrases was, "Be nice to each other!" followed closely by, "Get along or I'll kill you all!" In both cases, the love and affection was clear in her tone, though the word choices did not always portray these feelings. Regardless, we tended to heed our mother, because we knew that she was capable of making us very, very miserable if we fought with each other, descended into namecalling, or otherwise failed to be nice and/or get along. My Mom, y'all, is a very-scary lady, despite being rather quiet and shy in certain social settings. I wouldn't piss her off if I were you. She has long fingernails, for starters. And a 1911.

Because this mother of ours found it Utterly Distasteful, not to mention Incredibly Shitty, to taunt or torment somebody for something that he or she could not fix or cure, we were all instructed to be absolutely polite to Youngest Bro about his speech impediment. If we so much as thought about cracking one joke about his problem, she would turn to us, her eyes ablaze with anger, and hiss, "You don't want to go there."

We did not, in fact, go there. Because we actually liked Youngest Bro, and because we really, really liked not having our heads knocked halfway to the moon.

My sibs and I went so far as to be the exact opposite of cruel to Youngest Bro. We went out of our way to include him, and to make him feel useful when we were plotting something...I mean...doing after-school activities. Soon enough, we discovered that his desire to speak with people, despite not being able to clearly communicate, worked to our collective advantage.

We discovered, quite by accident, that soda-truck drivers generally enjoyed children. This epiphany struck when, while watching Mom pump gas from our seats inside of our van, Youngest Bro leaned out the passenger window and called out to a Pepsi-Cola driver parked near the gas station's front doors.

I don't recall exactly what Youngest Bro said, but the driver - a tall, crew-cut gentleman in shorts and a striped shirt - looked up from his hand truck piled high with crates of Pepsi and asked us what we'd just said.

I, the quick thinker of the group, called out that my little brother [point to adorable, tow-headed brat with big, blue eyes and perpetual grin] wanted to know how many bottles of Pepsi the driver could fit into his trailer.

The driver, grinning, walked over to our van with a two-liter of Pepsi in hand. He answered the question (all I remember is that the truck held a buttload of soda) and handed Youngest Bro the bottle.

Score!

From then on, whenever we saw a truck driver in the middle of a delivery, we dragged out our not-so-secret weapon. Youngest Bro would ask the driver a question, or make a comment to the effect of, "[Whatever you're hauling, buddy] is my favorite [snack, soda, video-game console, home-gym equipment]." Driver would, more often than not, show amusement at this.

And sometimes, when we were quite fortunate, we scored free stuff. We never did convince anybody to give us a free Nintendo, but we did try. Very hard, in fact. Oh, well.

However much our mother enjoyed the fact that we were all getting along AND being nice, she did have her limits.

"You are not going to say a single word to that man," Mom said, as she nodded her head toward yet another delivery driver.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because he's with Budweiser," Mom hissed back.

"So?"

"So he's not going to give you beer." She paused for a moment, then: "He'd BETTER not, anyway."

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Daddy's Little Girl

Mom: Sarah's birthday is this weekend.
Dad: Uh-huh.
Mom: What are you getting her?
Dad: I dunno. Sarah, would you like ammo?
Me: Yes. Yes I would.
Mom: How about renewing her NRA membership?
Dad: Oh, I can do that.
Me: Sweet.

You know that you have an awesome family when they insist on gun-related gifts.

Now, to convince them to buy me an AR-15 when I finally finish college...

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