Author Archives: nsahm

The Chick-fil-A Princess Bride

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Have you eaten at Chick-fil-A lately?  Because when you do, it’s kinda like starring as the Princess in your very own Princess Bride movie.  This, I highly recommend.

‘Cept instead of Cary Elwes as Westley-the-Stable-Boy character in said movie, it’s mostly older women and teenage girls.  And instead of SAYING, “As you wish” like Cary Westley would, the Chick-fil-A folks say “My pleasure,” when you ask them to roll themselves down the hill.

Hey!  You!  Just frickin’ GO with it!  Why do you always have to break out the Negative Nancy talk about it actually NOT being the same thing.  Because if you can’t get on board with the whole love-in-the-form-of-servitude-is-very-very-similar-to-love-in-the-form-of-nuggets-with-a-side-of-ranch-delivered-directly-to-your-table-complete-with-an-offer-of-a-napkin-a-drink-refill-and-a-mint-for-later, then you should buy a piece of pie from Chick-fil-A (they sell pie, did you know that?) and shove it!  In the hole where pie goes.

Side note to this tirade: When my daughter was little she had twin plastic-headed-soft-bodied dolls.  These dolls were Creep Factor Five Thousand dolls with their painted on forehead curl and weird bonnet all tucked up and around their staring eyes.  But the worst part was that their faces would collect an odd amount of unexplained schmutz.  They were named Fancy and Nancy.  And if WE were dolls, I’d be Fancy.  YOU’RE Nancy.  And Nancy?  You have some pie on your face.  Musta missed that HOLE when you were shovin’ stuff in it. 

In summation: Cary Elwes as a stable boy, ready to carry out your commands?  Nummy, num, num!  Almost as good as a fried chicken sammich, no? 

But settle down.  Cary’s not the fella for me.  Because I could hip check him into a wall.  That’s my test.  If  I could hip check you into a wall, then you’re not the fella for me.  I have my own fella.  And I’ve tried and tried to hipcheck him into the wall; nuthin’ doin’.  It must be wuv, twew wuv.

Hi, Honey! 

Dirt Cheap

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Remember in the 80’s when Oprah Winfrey achieved fame and glory?!  Why did she EVER think shoulder pads were slenderizing?  That is a total mystery to me.  Because they WEREN’T!  Ever.  Slenderizing that is – whether you were slender or not.

And I can talk this way about Oprah and her shoulder pads (and her slenderizing) because she and I have a unique relationship.  In fact, I have a special nickname for her: Oh-ps (like Ops, as in Special Ops, but instead of a short ‘O’ it’s a LONG ‘O.’  Special Oh-ps.)  And she calls me nothing at all.  Because she has no idea who I am.

Even so, I remember something she said back when she was first achieving BigDipperillionaire status, “Do what you love and the money will follow.”

Sound advice even if the fashion choices were a bit…er…questionable.

Flash forward to present day.  There’s this thing I “do” now called being a stay at home mom.  I love it and all….but it involves an inordinate amount of housework for some reason. 

So when I first started the job, a dear friend gave me some sound advice about the housework.  And no, it was a DIFFERENT friend, not Oh-ps.  Because Oh-ps doesn’t clean her own house.  And we stopped being that great a’ friends once she started complaining about how her ironed bedsheets lose their “crispness” after being on the bed two days, so she has her housekeeper change them that frequently.  Yeah.  We stopped being good pal-sies right about then.  The advice I received was [in the form of a question for Mr. Trebek’s benefit] why clean the entire house all at once when you can clean it a lil’ bit at a time? 

Why, indeed?? 

So I’ve taken this advice to heart, which means that my house is never entirely clean.  All at one time.  It’s only clean in some constantly moving quadrant area.  Like the upstairs.  As of today. 

I cleaned the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms today.  And look what I found on my daughter’s bureau!

And there we have it.  Do what you love, and the money will follow. 

Afterall, Oh-ps never did say what KIND of money would follow.  Just that THE MONEY would follow.  It was my dumba$$ fault for assuming it would be BigDipperillionaire money.  Because at the end of the day, no matter who changes your sheets or how frequently they do so, two crumpled ones and three pennies is still…technically…money.    

And now?  For some strange reason I feel an 80’s song comin’ on!  Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.
 Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.  Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.  Dirty deeds and they’re done dirt cheap.  Dirty deeds and they’re done DIRT CHEAP!*

*Yes, that WAS “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” from the AC/DC album of the same name released in the United States on March 27, 1981.  This game called “an 80’s song for every moment in life” that we play is so much fun.  I did it.  And I love it.  I’ll expect THE EVERLOVIN’ MONEY for it shortly. 

Mother’s Day 2014

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The Fourth Grade Mother’s Day Program was this past Thursday.  The kids recited original poems-about-their-mothers (my favorite was the one entitled, “My Mother is Like a Horse.”  Yeah.  And I betcha Mom’s gonna feed you HAY-with-spit-in-it for dinner tonight to thank you for calling her a horse in front of all the other mothers.)

But before we could get to our one-cookie-and-glass-of-lemonade allotment …when my son delivered my “refreshment,” my drink was half drunk.  I’m hoping HE was to blame for the missing lemonade, and not the teacher, or someone ELSE’S son!  Either way it couldn’t have been any of the other mothers because they were too busy gabbing to each other and ignoring the one dad in the crowd whose wife had to work, while Horse Mom stood in the corner with a feedbag on her head…  the kids read and sang a rousing version of “Love You Forever” based on a book by Robert Munsch. 

When the “show host” announced this portion of the program, a murmur went through the crowd.  I’ve never read this book but apparently it takes place in Creep Town, U.S.A. where it’s standard practice for a mother to crawl across the floor of her son’s bedroom, to gather his sleeping form into her arms, then rock him and tell him she loves him.  That’s ok when the boy is two.  But when he’s a married man and Mom has to drive across town and climb into his bedroom window to do this rocking biz while her son is sleeping next to his wife in their bed?!?  I think we can all agree on the Creep Town, U.S.A. thing.

So all the other mothers are whispering furiously to each other.  And the kids on stage are narrating the son’s life: when he’s two, a teen-ager, a young adult etc.  After each lifestage, the kids sing (in a charming, upbeat-yet-dirge-like way) the refrain the mother uses every time she does her creepy creeping, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, As long as I’m living, My baby you’ll be.”

Some of the other mothers have started to cry.  Which I CANNOT get behind, because I’m stunned by the overt Creep Factor Five Thousand.

Then it’s my son’s turn.  He’s narrating how the mother couldn’t finish her final song to her son because she was too old and sick.  So the son instead goes to his mother and takes her in his arms and rocks her back and forth, back and forth and sings, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, As long as I’m living, My MOMMY you’ll be.”  

And?  WATERWORKS.  Beaucoup, beaucoup de waterworks.  (That’s French for alotta tears.  Why haven’t I been hired yet?!?) 

And then?  Then the “boy” goes home and picks up his sleeping, infant daughter out of her crib and sings the original version of the song to her.  Waaaaaa!  WAAAAAAAAAA!!!!  <–that was me doing that, not the sleeping, infant daughter.

But enough about me.  On this Mother’s Day I’d like to say a big thank you to my mommy.  For not being as creepy as the mommy in that story.  (At least, not that I know of.  I’ll have to double-check with Hubby to see if he’s spotted you in our bedroom rocking me.)  And while we’re not to the rocking portion of your story yet, you can count on me when it comes!  (Also?  I meant what I said about the diaper thing and how it applies to those I birthed and to those who birthed me.  So we’re in for some laughs there.)

But until then, Mom, I just wanted you to know – I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, As long as I’m living, My MOMMY you’ll be. 

Happy Mother’s Day!

Shirts vs. Skins

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In the scheme of things, the dermatologist appointment should be one of the easier doctor visits, right?  You don’t have to wear make-up (in fact it’s encouraged that you don’t) and there’s no particular gussying up of yer lady parts required. 

See?  It’s easy from top to bottom!  heh, heh, heh

Admittedly there might be a “matching bra and panties” (or at least a “wear clean underwear”) component to the visit, especially if you’re going to see Dr. Skin for a quick game of “I spy with my little eye.”   

In Colorado, that game is called an Annual Skin Check.  And trust me when I say that during this visit, Dr. Skin will spy with his little eye whether or not you brought your A-Game Underwear.   

But it’s only after Dr. Skin’s militant, Germanic office manager has handed me two separate cover-ups – both the consistency of cheap paper napkins – that I know this is gonna go down harder than I originally thought.  Game on.  

After Achtung Baby leaves, I try to remember what she said about my new paper doll outfit.  Leave my underwear and bra on, with the paper top open backwards??  And I briefly make myself giggle with the visual of me forgetting the instructions and wearing NO bra OR underwear.  Surprise, Doc!  Wucka, wucka!!! 

But S^^T!  During the giggling portion of the event, “someone” accidentally ripped the piece-of-cheap-crap top as they were open-in-backing it.  And now this is serious business.  There are five extra inches of skin exposed at the neckline and the fault line is inching further south every time I move.

But more importantly, what about the paper skirt?!?  Nothing was said about THAT!!!  How is this measly thing supposed to cover my ass-ets??  WTF?!??  Do only skinny people come to the dermatologist’s office???

Exactly HOW should I be wearing this charming paper skirt?!  Would “open in front” be too forward?  As in, “I’m mostly nekkid under here, Doc.  Peek-a-boo!”  But would “open in back” be too hard for the doctor to get to and therefore result in an embarrassing “Please lift your butt cheek so I can unwrap you” approach?

So at first I put my paper skirt around my waist like you would a towel-after-swimming.  But when I sit down, it doesn’t actually overlap…or even CLOSE…in the front like a REAL towel would.  Instead it gapes a good two inches from stem-to-stern.  So I quickly switch to more of an “artful drape” with the paper spread over my lap and tucked under my legs.  During this process I succeeded in poking five thumb-sized holes in the #^*$ing thing.  And the rip in my top is now SEVEN inches long. 

It’s at this point that the doctor knocks on the door and breezes in.  [I love “the knock,” don’t you?  Like I would ever say, “Not now!” Or, “I’m busy, go away!” when we BOTH know I’ve been doing nothing ELSE for the last fifteen minutes but sitting there, sweating his arrival.  And speaking of SWEATING, my new outfit is now “sticking” in certain places.  Super cute.  Yes, yes!  Please come in and witness the glory.]

So Dr. Skin comes in with a propane torch under his arm and acts like he’s going to demonstrate his crème brûlée recipe.  Which he does…ON MY FACE!  There are some spots that require flames and brown, bubbling flesh – two corresponding ones on either temple.  After the crème brûlée demonstration, these accidental temple twins leave me looking like I’m a calf with new horn buds, or an escapee from shock-therapy-gone-bad.  How darling!

And the whole thing leaves me feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the head and left to die.  But while I’m breathing through the pain, Doc makes himself comfortable on his low, low stool, gazes up at me, and proceeds to give a dissertation on “recommended skin care products” all the while writing lists on the back of prescription pads.

And me?   I’m not even listening because I have a blazing headache and am engaged in a bizarre, crinkly Fan Dance.  The front tear on my backwards weskit has become a full split-down-the-middle.  So now my paper top is in two separate pieces – a left one and a right one.  Which I constantly have to pull together, then up, then down, then back together again, right hand to heart…holding, holding…so that I don’t accidentally display too many naughty bits.  Uh-huh.  Uh-huh, Doc.  Uh-huh.  And my left hand?  Same scenario down below because the holes in my paper skirt have joined forces.  Now it’s MOSTLY holes and my pride is in tatters, just like the skirt. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Beat it already, Doc!  I gotta get DRESSED!  Into REAL clothes that don’t disintegrate.  But wowzers – that game was loads of fun.  Count on me for another round next year.

Take me out to the softball game!

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Oh, goodygoodygoody!  It’s softball season time again!!

Yippee! 

I can’t get enough of dramatic enactments performed by 6th grade girls, so that’s where my daughter’s softball team comes in; It’s the perfect forum in which to get my fill.  Yay, softball!!  Also?  There’s mucho, mucho accidental hi-jinx, so there’s that as well.  Good times all the way around.

But first?  A word to the wise: eye black runs.  So if you think you’re intimidating your opponent by wearing eyeblack, then don’t start crying halfway through the game, because then you just look like a sweaty clown wearing really bad mascara.

And I KNOW that they’re only 11-and-12-year-olds trying to find themselves, but most of these lil’ cuties (did you know that they have a pony-tail “channel” built inside the hot pink batting helmets?  Love it!) could win BIG awards if they ever went into acting.

Consider this one-girl-play performed at the last softball tournament I witnessed.  A girl on the opposing team was bustin’ to first base, when the ball that she JUST BATTED hit her in the leg.  Or it could have been an accidental underthrow from the catcher.  Who’s to say, really?  Because that’s the nature of The Three Stooges, Softball Version.  The girl goes DOWN like she just stepped on a landmine.  Then she starts marine crawling to first base, all the while dragging her lifeless legs behind her.  I’m comin’, Sarge.  I’m gonna make it! 

Uh.  Ok.  But you’re still out.  Because while you were doing Full Metal Jacket Saves Private Ryan, the first baseman who happens to be my daughter, picked up the ball and tagged you, then tagged the base, then walked back and tagged you again for good measure.  So thanks for playing.

And let’s not forget the part of the softball shenanigans where one of the other mothers on the softball team confided to me years ago – when that Showtime series, Weeds, was still airing – that she thought I looked just like the lead actress.  (The lead actress is Mary-Louise Parker.  And yes, I look JUST like her…if you live in BIZARRO WORLD!!) 

Anyway, in the show, Ms. Parker is a pot dealer.  [This is more of a viable career opportunity than one might think, especially here in Colorado.  But I’m not one.  And that’s really where my resemblance to Mary-Louise ends – she’s got a high-paying job any way you slice it, I don’t.  THANKS FOR BRINGING IT UP!  Stink eye, stink eye.] 

But naturally, every time I see this other mother, I have to offer to sell her pot.  Then we laugh uproariously while the other mothers look at us aghast.  But also like they might want to buy some.  Right now.  Before the next game starts.  Now!  IT’S STARTING!!!  SELL. ME. THE POT…NOW!!!!! 

Awwww, softball!  What’s not to love?!?

Pot (of coffee, that is)

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Hey.  You think you’re the only whiz-bang who’s reloading the mini coffee pot in your hotel room using the cup YOU JUST DRANK OUT OF?!?

‘Cause you’re not. 

But enough about YOU.  Back to me.

My coffee pot broke.  Not just broke, but plumed acrid, black smoke and snap, crackle, popped to death.  It was a whole “throw it out the back door using oven mitts” sort of thing.

This has left me trying to survive my mornings with a mini coffee pot that I got from a hotel room somewhere and which apparently serves coffee to a grand total of one leprechaun.  Which means that I have to make three consecutive pots-o’-leprechaun-coffee to equal one new stay at home mom sized java injection.

It’s annoying.  Totally annoying.  And I haven’t had enough caffeine yet this morning so don’t PISS ME OFF OR YOU’LL BE SORRY!!  I WILL FREAKIN’ CUT YOU. 

Because I just want massive quantities of coffee…VATS of coffee…GET INTO MY BELLY, COFFEE!!  And I don’t want to be constantly fiddling with a teeeeny tiiiiiny coffeepot that makes me feel like I have a serious case of ham-hands.

So what do to, what to do??  I had my first coffee pot for TWENTY YEARS!  This second pot didn’t even last 18 months.  SONOFAB**CH!!  When I called the manufacturer with the “twenty years vs. less-than-18-months” storyline?  Lucky day!  The 18-month-old coffee pot is still under warranty.  So they’re sending me another one.  The exact same make and model.  FREE!

Remember that part about “house almost caught on fire?!”  Yeah, remember that??  Yes – more of that, please.  But this time for FREE!  

Run For The Roses

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The Kentucky Derby is tomorrow.  And I choose my horses the way I choose lots of other important things in life: based on some complicated-yet-intuitive combination of name and color of jockey silks.  But who doesn’t, really.

Where I was actually going with all this is that I saw a simply scintillating news piece this morning on the Today Show about the Kentucky Derby.  Al Roker interviewed Donna Brothers who demonstrated how – during a horserace like the Derby – the jockeys will wear upwards of six pairs of goggles.  And how, when the jockeys realize they aren’t wearing ENOUGH goggles once the race has started, they begin to “conserve” their goggles by stripping them off one-eye-at-a-time.  So that at any given point in time, one eye is completely muddy.  And one eye is somewhat muddy.

Uhhh…either this is a brilliant plan.  Or just a really, really hard way to get ‘er done. 

Also?  Does it remind anyone else of their slog-through-life as a new stay at home mom (not a new mother, just a new stay at home mom) who STILL hasn’t found another job after she misplaced her old one with the Christmas decorations?  And who doesn’t really even WANT another job but instead secretly just wants to be a witty, talented (highly-paid) blogger?  No?!  Just me on that one???

Because truth be told, I can’t see  sh*t.  I couldn’t see sh*t when I started this thing, and I can’t see sh*t now that I’m halfway through – not to mention that sinking feeling in my stomach which means I’m probably not wearing enough goggles to make it to the finish line.  If this stage of my life had a title it would be, “My Goggles: All crapped up and fading fast.”

But let’s not lose sight did you catch THAT?  That pun about sight and SIGHT?!?  Hardy, har, har on that.  See: blogger – witty, talented above of the most important thing here.  Which is: what’s everyone doing about their teeth?  Because whatever’s getting in your eyes has GOT to be getting all over your teeth.  And since the goggles aren’t doing squat for me anyway, I think I’ll shift them down a few inches to cover my teeth.  That way, when the race is over, my smile will be megawatt.  And the rest of the jockeys ,who were so worried about where they were going (and didn’t trust the horse to take ‘em there, fast) will look like a bunch of English people from a Charles Dickens’ novel hopin’ for more porridge.  Please sir, mightn’t I have another??  [And please, People-from-England, do not contact me about the negative stereotype of your teeth which I have perpetuated in this blog.  You should have taken better care of your teeth.  Bundles of twigs rubbed on your rotted nubbins every fortnight clearly didn’t do the trick and now your reputation is ruined.]

So on this Kentucky Derby Eve, I would like to recall the fun game we play together.  The fun game where 1980’s songs pop into our heads prompted by any random thing, at any point in time, for any reason at all.  Remember how we called that game “An 80’s song for every moment in life?!?”  Well…it’s run for the roses, as fast as you can.  Your fate is delivered; your moment’s at hand.  It’s the chance of a lifetime, in a lifetime of chance.  And it’s high time you joined in the dance.  [This is ANOTHER reason I’m keeping my teeth clean;  There’ll be a dance afterwards.]

And yes, those ARE the lyrics from Dan Fogelberg’s “Run for the Roses.”  The song was commissioned by ABC for the 106th running of the Derby in 1980. It was subsequently released as a song on Fogelberg’s album The Innocent Age in 1981.  Every single thing about that screams 80’s. 

And I win this round of our fun game.  Dark Horse?  Long shot?? Trifecta of FUN??!  Whatever horse race-y term you wanna call it, I still win.  And I’ll see you at the dance afterwards.  You’ll recognize me because I’ll be holding a red rose between my nice…clean…TEETH!

Have a good day

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When I was a teen-ager, and was heading out to school for the day, my mother would say, “MAKE IT a good day!”  Naw.  No pressure, or anything.  And why are you saying that?!?  Do you think I have a PROBLEM with having a good day?  I always KNEW YOU HATED ME!!!   WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME?!?

Despite the teenage angst, I did get the point.  Which was:  How your day goes is up to you – so make it good, dammit!   [I actually added the dammit part; Mom’s most likely horrified now.  But I never was her favorite anyway.  Refer to angst, teenage – subcategory: lots of, above]

Then, when I was a grown-up, I had a colleague.  And I say “had” because I no longer have a job;  And the colleague in question is deceased.  If it’s not one thing, it’s another, right?  Rest in Peace, Remotee Four. 

And this colleague had four kids, most of whom were teenagers at-the-time.  And they had this ritual they would go through before they left the house.  I can’t remember now exactly what the ritual was because it’s lost in the sands of time which fill my head, then get displaced by 80’s songs and subsequently spill out my ears and onto the floor – which someone then has to clean up.   For free.  Because it’s not like anyone around here is getting PAID to sweep the grit off the floor.

But I do remember being truly inspired by my colleague’s love for his children, and what he said to his kids when they left the house each day.  It was something along the lines of, “I’m proud of you, now go out and do something wonderful today.”  I know, RIGHT?  I’m getting choked up just thinking about it too.  We are SUCH twins!  Yay, Twins!!

And once I became a mom with school age kids, I boarded the send-your-kids-off-to-school-with-inspirational-words train.

But I made a mistake.  And accidentally told my kids about how – just about every summer of my youth – we would spend time at a cottage by a lake.  It was in New Hampshire (Hamp-shuh!) and it was soo-pah doo-pah!  But the cottage was on the rustic side and the plumbing drained into a septic tank, which would fill up quickly when big crowds were around.  And unless you took evasive measures, you’d soon be squelching through a front yard full of bad smells.

Evasive measures included posting a fun sign on the wall in the bathroom about not flushing the toilet EVERY time it was used.  What the sign said, I remember to this day.  I even waxed poetic about it to my kids.

Flash forward to the future, where it’s ACTUALLY my robot maid who cleans the sand up off the floor.  Her name is Rosie and she works for free.  Because if she ever DID ask for money, I’d flip her switch to “off.”  She’s a robot afterall and she’s not that great of a cook, since we’re being honest.

Anyway, every morning after Judy and Elroy have walked Astro, but before they all pile into Hubby’s bubble-topped spaceship, [Reminder: we flashed forward to the future.  So please don’t act all confused about these future-y references.] I hug and kiss Hubby and the kids and tell them I love them.  Then I say to them, “Have a good day, have lots of fun…”

To which the kids reply, “But please don’t flush for number one!”

Inspiring, no? 

The NINTH Wonder of the World

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Sonny was spouting fun facts as we were milling around the kitchen this morning.  The kids and hubby were putting on coats, collecting backpacks and in general, getting ready to walk out the door and into their life. 

And lil ol’ me?!  I was drinking coffee in my p.j.’s and doling out goodbye kisses.  Welcome to MY life!  I’mmmm sittin’ in the lap!  Sittin’ in the lap of luxury!  Sittin’ in the lap…*

It’s right about this time that Sonny states, “You know, there’s a NINTH wonder of the world.  It’s – THE WORLD!”

To which, Sissy replies, “Uhhhh, wouldn’t the FIRST wonder of the world be – THE WORLD?!?”

Good point.  Especially if we’re ranking wonders by order-of-astounding.  But NINE Wonders of the World, huh?  So I say out loud, “What exactly ARE these Nine Wonders, Buddy?”

He starts itemizing, “The Grand Canyon…”  This clearly is top of mind since we were just there.  ‘Cept I call it Scary Canyon https://newstayathomemom.com/?p=3041.  And if you thought “grand” was a misnomer, “wonder” would have to be one too.  Wonder implies your eyes get round and your mouth forms an “O.”  My bowels just turn to water; Wonder my a$$! 

But he continues, “…the pyramids, Niagara Falls, Mount Everest…”  And then?  It goes wonky.

“…this volcano thing, a golden room somewhere…”  Hmmm, I am not familiar with these items.  A golden room somewhere??  That doesn’t sound quite specific enough.  Or even right.  And I think some wonder lists have gotten combined here.

“…and a coupla other things.”  Well, a coupla other things and THE WORLD, of course.  Let’s not forget that. 

Also?  A “coupla other things” sounds pretty vague.  I’m no expert or anything, but if you count backwards and include THE WORLD, then we’re really at EIGHT Wonders of the World.  And Sonny said there were NINE.  So a “coupla other things” would really be just ONE other thing, right?  And what would that ONE other thing be?!  Unless, of course, it’s really EIGHT Wonders of the World.  Or maybe even SEVEN Wonders of the World??  If we subtract out THE WORLD (because I don’t think THE WORLD counts as a WONDER of THE WORLD, but I could be wrong), then we’re at SEVEN. 

And now?  Now it’s gotten confusing. 

Because really??  Really, when you get right down to brass tacks, all of these lists are just math masquerading as wonders.

And you know what math means, don’t you?!?  PEACE OUT!

 

*Why yes, those are the lyrics from “Sittin’ in the Lap of Luxury” released in 1990 by Louie, Louie.  Now, I know that on the surface, this does not look like a winning entry in the “80’s Song For Every Moment In Life” game we have so much fun playing together.  But how ‘bout if I told you Louie, Louie (Louis Cordero) used to tour with Erasure?  80’s much?  And what if I told you he appeared on the Arsenio Hall show TWICE during the first year of the show’s debut??  Totally 80’s!  And that he played Madonna’s boyfriend in the music video for her “Borderline” song?!?  Come on!  That’s quintesSENTIAL 80’s!  Then you would know that a master is at work here.  And that the whole thing practically screams eighties with a capital EIGHT!  And then you would concede that I have won another round in this game.  And that I am truly winner, winner chicken dinner!  But all this talk of EIGHT reminds me too much of the talk of NINE and also SEVEN.  Which still means…PEACE OUT!

Show’s on!

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Sonny has my old P90X pull-up bar installed in his room.  The difference between the two of us is that he can actually DO pull-ups on it.  I never could.  Ratbastard P90X, if I EVER see you again, it’ll be too soon!!! [She said with a hate-filled voice, dripping venom.  And diamonds.]

So when I went upstairs last night, it came as no surprise that he had just been using it, “Hey Mom.  Look at my abs!”

“Yep, sweetie.  Good job.”  What pull-ups have to do with abs, I don’t know.  And speaking of abs, there were none present, just really more strategic “lines” that give the odd resemblance to abs when viewed in low-light.

Sonny and I both knew what was what, so then he says, “When I hit puberty, will I get real abs?”

Like…all-of-a-sudden, a six-pack is gonna sprout on his stomach overnight.

“Well, abs are something you have to work really hard at, whether you’ve hit puberty or not.”  But now my spidey-senses are tingling.  Puberty?!  Let’s discuss…

And because I’m a good mother, filled with wisdom and a stellar sense of timing, I launch into a speech on “How your body will REALLY change once you hit puberty.” 

This conversation is akin to a plane completely stalling out, then plummeting towards the ground.

When I pause to take a breath from the “hair” portion of the presentation, Sonny says, “Wait a second.  So hair will grow OUT of my belly button?”

Pull. UP.  PULL! UP!!! “Well…not exactly.”  So then I’m forced to clarify what I just said, because admittedly, it was totally confusing.  And as I’m “clarifying,” I can tell it’s not going any better than the original explanation…

OH.  MY.  SWEET. LORD!!!!!  This is awful.  This is truly AWFUL!!!  I’m the one SAYING it and I just want it to stop.  And let’s pause right here and come to a consensus that small words like “on” and “around” really do make all the difference when discussing hair, don’t they?

I’ve misspoken one of those words, and I can tell Sonny is now picturing himself – once he hits puberty – having to go WITH the dog to the groomer to get all of the hair completely COVERING his penis trimmed.

The plane has crashed into the ground at this point.  There are no survivors.

Another big pause…processing, processing…then Sonny says, “Sometimes when we have to sit criss-cross applesauce in class, you can see Charlie’s butt crack.”

Oh, thank you!  ThankyouTHANKYOU!  I’d MUCH rather talk about Charlie’s butt crack when he sits criss-cross applesauce!!!  YES, LET’S DO IT!!!

And so we leave our happy mother-son couple, chatting about Charlie’s butt crack…

And this has been another presentation of “How to talk to your pre-pubescent son in a completely irrelevant yet confusing and most likely mentally scarring way.”

Thanks for tuning in.