And Now For Something Completely Different

After writing about accidental orgies and fisting, I thought it might be nice to lighten the mood a bit with something innocent and nice. I am a sweet, lovely person, I promise!

So here is a YouTube video of toddlers arguing about whether it's raining or "sprinkling." And then one pokes the other "in the heart." That sounds weird, but it's adorable. Just watch it.

Link: http://youtu.be/3sKdDyyanGk

Happy Friday!

What's Hot With the Kids These Days.

As a teacher and a mother, I am constantly surrounded by today's young people. It sounds awful, I know -- and it is awful -- but it does keep my finger on the pulse of what's hip these days. For example, were you wondering what's hip with 2-4 year old boys these days? Well I'll tell you: it's Paw Patrol. Paw Patrol is so hot right now it's on fire.

The boy pictured above is named Ryder, and he has adopted these six talented dogs to help him work off his community service hours (I assume). They all have specific talents, except Ryder, and together they complete various community service projects around their hometown of Adventure Bay. 

If you are a small child and not living under a rock -- this show is your everything.

Now, if you are 12-14 years old, Paw Patrol is, like, so stupid. You would much prefer to spend your time watching YouTube videos. 

My students often request I play YouTube videos in class, and sometimes -- after I vet their selection to make sure it doesn't have anything that will get me in trouble -- I will indulge these requests as a "special treat." (We are not allowed to give out candy anymore.)

Anyway, today I played this weird cat video under just such circumstances, and it killed. Every kid, even the too-cool-for-school kids, loved it. So apparently that is what is hip to tweenagers these days.

You're welcome.

Blasphemers

Check out my awesome new cup!

I got this last weekend when we went to see "The Little Mermaid" at the local dinner theater. It is awesome; I have been very hydrated all week.

The cup is awesome, no doubt, but the play I had some issues with. And since I am basically like a professional reviewer of the fine arts (I wrote about a TV show once) I am going to share with you my concerns regarding this production of the Disney classic.

Before I begin, let me say that I am probably the last person who should ever review a show based on "The Little Mermaid" because I am something of a expert.

And let me also say that I am an expert because I once watched the movie sixteen times in one day.

When I was nine.

Which totally justifies it.

Anyway, as with many things, you can blame this movie-binge on my mother because she wouldn't let me buy the movie when it came out on video. I could only get the 24 hour rental. So obviously I had to watch it as many times as I could within those 24 hours because I love mermaids so much.

Eventually it aired on TV and I was able to tape it -- which was a relief.

I was such a Little Mermaid freak in the early 90's that when my sister's 8th-grade class was doing the musical for their spring concert, I actually wrote them a script to use from memory. That's a fact. File it under "True Facts" because that's what it is.

What I'm saying is that I know the story of the Little Mermaid better than your average adult [who is not institutionalized], so I don't like when people change the story and make it weird, which is what they did in the stage production I saw this weekend. For example:

1. Flounder was officially in love with Ariel. They added all these lines about how he had this unrequited love for her, and it was uncomfortable for many reasons, not the least of which is that he is 1/6 her size.

2. All the humans in the play dressed like they were in India, so when I thought I was going to see Ariel in this:

. . . she was in something like this:

Which makes NO SENSE.

3. Sebastian had a Steve-Urkel catchphrase. It wasn't "Did I do that?" but it was in a voice exactly like that. I was not into it.

4. There was all this stuff about how Ursula and Triton were brother and sister, and how Ursula killed all of her other siblings but forgot about Triton, and how Ursula killed Ariel's mom, and it was a bit much. Get to the "Oh that blowfish blow!" already. 

5. And finally, Prince Eric had blonde, curly hair. Which is ABSURD.

In conclusion, the actors were talented and the theater was nice, but I give this musical two thumbs DOWN for messing with what should not be messed.

Also, maybe I should see a therapist?

Happy Birthday to ME.

You guys, I was born on this day thirty-three years ago. It's a big deal. 

When I was little, all I wanted for my birthday was a party at Showbiz (the poor man's Chuck-E-Cheese). Of course, this dream never came true because two separate Showbizzes (sp?) closed right before my birthday in two different years. That seems pretty fishy in retrospect, doesn't it? Mom? Care to weigh in on this mysterious coincidence?

Both times I ended up celebrating at McDonald's instead, where the big game was to see how many Styrofoam containers a person could stack before they fell over. That is to say, we stacked trash.

I'm being totally serious right now.

And now that I've officially gained your sympathy for failed birthdays past, I think I can ask you for one very special birthday wish. Here it is: will you email me a terrible birthday story? I'm going to compile some sad-sack anecdotes because I think it would be funny. Laugh through the pain, right? Here are some ideas:

1. Failed birthday parties
2. Failed birthday gifts
3. Bad birthday luck

I know you've got at least one . . . so send them to thelazystandup@gmail.com. Come on. For my birthday?

Halloween

I meant to post this yesterday, but in all of the craziness it slipped my mind.

It is my favorite tribute to Halloween ever.

Link HERE.

A couple random thoughts on Halloween:

1) Why are preschoolers so obsessed with being the one to ring the doorbell? Why????? If it weren't for doorbells, I would have had a better Halloween. Just saying.

2) How can this candy be so good on the first bite and then make me want to vomit so much? And why do I keep eating it despite it making me want to barf? What is in there?

Okay bye I'm going to go eat more of that now.

Still thinking.

Some of the suggestions I received when petitioning for topics were 1) inappropriate Halloween costumes, and 2) things about your own children that annoy you.

Of course, I have plenty to say about both of these hot-button issues; but then I found some other people on the internet who were already doing it better than me. So check these out while I think of something original to say.

Costumes that are terrible.
http://suburbanturmoil.com/hoochieween/2013/10/14/

A dad who is mean but funny.
http://www.mostwatchedtoday.com/dad-lip-syncs-his-daughters-temper-tantrum/

Boys will be boys and break your things.

Here is something I've learned from being a mother to two boys: 

Boys are insane. 

I am the youngest of three girls, so before this I really had no idea what little boys were like. For example I wasn't aware of how much they love to hurt and damage people and things.

Since the day he was born, I have hugged and kissed my three-year-old incessantly. Maybe even too much. I don't know. And yet, and yet, the only thing he ever wants to do to his little brother is poke him in the face and tackle him to the ground. 

I asked him once, "Why do you always hit your baby brother?" And do you know what he said to me? Do you? 

"Because I love to, Mom."

He loves to. Oh boy.

The baby is no angel either, of course, because he is also a boy. For example, if you place any object atop another object in my house, it immediately becomes the baby's mission in life to knock that object down. It doesn't matter what it is; it must be knocked down right now. 

He really hates when one thing is on top of another thing. 

My friend has a child about the same age as my older son, but hers is a girl. I remember visiting her at her house and noticing a bowl filled with little decorative wicker balls (pictured above for your reference) on her coffee table. I was like "Whoa we better move these, right?" And she was like "Why?" And I was like "Because surely our children will knock those over and break/eat them." And she was like "What? No they won't." And I was like "OH MY GOD WHY ARE BOYS THE WORST?"

But of course I'm kidding; clearly my children are better than any other children ever born, despite their destructive behavior toward knickknacks. I am just a little confused by them. I don't know which behaviors to punish and which are an unavoidable part of their DNA. Then again, even though I can't keep nice things, or things-atop-things, I know I'll be compensated in ten years when they are just hungry and sleepy, while my friend's daughter hates her for not buying the right American Eagle top. 

Not a terrible trade. 

Tummy Tyrant

A long time ago, when we began the potty-training process, I made the critical mistake of referring to my son's tummy as its own entity. I consulted "Tummy" when it came to digestive issues in an attempt to make my child listen to his bodily urges. For example "Are you sure you don't have to go potty? [Yes, Mommy.] Check with your tummy. Does your tummy need to go potty?" etc.

Later, we added to the "Tummy" situation when we consulted it, rather than my son directly, regarding issues of hunger:

"Is your tummy hungry? Oh man, I can hear your tummy growling!" Etc.

Through this, we have inadvertently convinced my son that "Tummy" is a separate person inside him who calls the shots. Now when he orders me to make him lunch, or weasels out of using the bathroom, it's not him doing it, it's Tummy.

P.S. Tummy is a total dick.

Now I find myself getting in arguments with Tummy while my son mediates. He's just an innocent bystander, caught in the middle, while Tummy makes demands. (Incidentally, Tummy has the voice of a scary monster.)

     Son: Mommy, my Tummy says (scary monster voice): I'm hungry for a treat!

     Me: You just had breakfast. Tell Tummy it's not time for eating right now.

     Son: Tummy, it's not time for eating now. (Scary monster voice) But I'm still hungry; I want juice! (Normal voice) Mommy, Tummy says he still wants juice.
  
     Me: Please tell Tummy to shut the hell up and let me use the bathroom in peace.

That last line is actually just in my head, but you get the idea. It's like I live in a mental institution. We need a Tummy exorcist.

Also, if this ends up being my son's imaginary friend, that's disappointing. I mean, an internal organ? Really? Why not a superhero or a unicorn or something? I don't know. I want to support him in his creativity, but this Tummy guy has got to GO.

Oh my god; Tummy is coming. I need to find some crackers. Talk to you guys later.

Blog Business & Some Funny Links

There have been a few changes on this blog, all due to the fact that somebody, to whom I may or may not be married, has started to read it. And because this somebody has professional experience in web and blog design, advice has been given, and heeded.

Most changes are small. The main difference is with the email subscribers who had previously been able to read the entire blog on their email message. Now, only a "teaser" will appear on the email, and you'll have to click on the title to read the full post on the site. This generates more site traffic, which is a good thing to nerds who blog.

Incidentally, if you'd like to get notifications of new posts in your email, just type your address in the box on the bottom right that says "Let Me Entertain You(r Inbox)" -- I came up with that clever heading myself. It was a proud day.

Finally, what would you think of a TheLazyStandUp twitter feed? Is anyone on Twitter besides famous people's assistants? I have an account set-up. If I get more than ten followers maybe I'll start managing it. Pornbots do not count.

 

@TheLazyStandUp

And to close this post, during the writing of which an almost-ten-month-old has been climbing on me with admirable persistence, I will leave you with links about the many similarities between small children and drunk people. Have a nice day.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/awesomer/reasons-kids-are-pretty-much-just-tiny-drunk-adults

http://youtu.be/cds7lSHawAw

Last Word

Remember when having sleepovers with your friends was the most fun thing ever? Hanging out all night, eating breakfast together -- it was the pinnacle of a good time.

I wasn't allowed to have sleepovers until I was six, and my first few attempts at sleeping at friends' houses ended with my mom picking me up at 10PM. I just didn't like not sleeping at home. Sleepovers were really fun up until the point where the other person drifted peacefully to sleep in their own bed with their own stuff and their own parents nearby, and I laid there on the trundle feeling wide awake and not peaceful at all. 

Eventually I got over this problem, because I was older, and more mature, and didn't want people to make fun of me after I left. But my least favorite part of the sleepover was still the part where the other people fell asleep and I did not. (Apparently it takes me longer to fall asleep than anyone else in the world. Ever.)

It usually went the same way. We would be talking about something, and then I would say something and there would be no response because the other person was asleep. This was followed by that creepy feeling of talking to yourself, and no matter your last statement had been, hanging there in the air with no one to hear it, it felt like the stupidest thing you ever said. Example, circa 1995:

ME: That "Can't Hardly Wait" is so funny.

FRIEND: Yeah, I loved it.

ME: We should go see it again.

FRIEND: Yeah.

ME: Jennifer Love Hewitt is really pretty.

FRIEND:   -------------------------

Well great. Now the last thing I said was "Jennifer Love Hewitt is really pretty" which sounds weird, and I'm not sure if my friend is asleep or if she is just so uncomfortable with my sudden profession of love for JLH that she doesn't know how to respond. Now I am just going to lay here thinking about what a stupid thing that was to say for the rest of the night. 

I got so paranoid about having the last word at sleepovers that I started dropping out of conversations early and pretending to be asleep. This gave me the unique opportunity of listening to other people have the last word and that weird period self-consciousness that would follow it. 

Occasionally I would feel badly and come back, responding to them to keep the conversation going for a little while. But having just had a close-call, the other person would inevitably fall asleep as fast as she could, leaving me with the last word once again. Thus I learned: show no mercy. 

Nowadays I have a sleepover every night with my spouse, but the last word is not a concern. We usually just say "good night" and go to sleep simultaneously because sleep is like a rare, precious jewel neither of us wants to waste.

But I am always the last to fall asleep. 

My Mom the Liar

Have I ever told you guys about how my mom is a liar?

Obviously I am referring to lies beyond the typical "Santa Claus is watching you" and "eating carrots will make your eyes sparkle" kind of lies. I'm talking about lies that stay with you your entire life, until one day, reality comes crashing down on you and you're like WHAT IS HAPPENING?

Those kind of lies.

I grew up believing that I am allergic to cats. Whenever I was around a cat, I would think "uh-oh" and keep away. My eyes would "itch" and "water." Or, at least I thought they would itch and water. But of course they didn't, because I am not at all allergic to cats.

Are you confused? Let me be clear: my mother lied to me when I was a four-year-old and told me I was allergic to cats. Being a dumb four-year-old, I had no reason to question her. I didn't want to question her, either, because I thought it was awesome. Having an allergy made me different than my two older sisters; it made me special. I envisioned countless special allergy attacks in which everyone would be deeply concerned about my well-being.

 Well go figure, no such allergy attack ever came. The only change this new ailment brought to my life was that I could no longer play at my friend Olivia's house. Olivia's family had ten cats, then one of those cats had kittens, and then there were eighteen cats. Each cat had a name. You couldn't go anywhere in that house without encountering a cat.  It was like a cat party every day.

When the "devastating" news of my allergy came about, I had to stop playing at Olivia's. She could come to our house to play, or we could play in one of our yards. Sure, it was tough, but Olivia and I made it through. We agreed that my health was more important.

Here is a fun-fact about my mom: she is not a cat person. She is actually not much of an animal person in general, unless the animal is a golden retriever. She makes a big exception for golden retrievers.

The idea of her youngest daughter hanging out in a house with eighteen cats was too much for my mother. She couldn't handle it. The presence of cats on kitchen counters and cabinets and couches and toilets and sinks and beds and window sills -- simultaneously -- disturbed her on a level that is difficult to explain. So she decided I should not go there ever again.

 Instead of looking mean and saying "I think having eighteen cats is creepy and you can't go there anymore," she looked concerned and said "Darling, you are allergic to cats, so sadly you will be unable to play at Olivia's anymore." And I bought it big time.

Thus, the great lie was born. I walked around for years like an idiot, avoiding cats and feeling very self-important. Even now I am wary of cats, either out of habit or because they are kind of scary and mean. I'm not sure which one.

The Funniest Story Ever

Today is my son’s 3^rd birthday, and in honor of him I am going to write the funniest story ever. He and I worked together on this extensively while driving home from daycare the other day.

 I think it’s pretty clear that he is a budding comic genius. Here we go.

THE FUNNIEST STORY EVER

Once there was a turtle named Computer Towel Water Bottle. Computer Towel Water Bottle was on his way to a party when he saw glowing eyes and it was a GHOST. He was so scared he ran away but then he got stuck in some mud. A porcupine came and helped him out, but then they both got stuck in a pair of shoes. The wind came and blew them up in the sky and there was another ghost and Captain Hook came and said “Arrr I stole your treasure, Matey” and then they all got stuck in some mud AGAIN. Finally they arrived at the party but it was a funny party with NO CAKE and NO FOOD! They said “Hey we want some cake” so they left but then they all got stuck in a TREE! While they were up in the tree they jumped up in the roof and then fell into a big hole, which turned out to be a Jake and the Neverland Pirates water bottle. So they jumped up into the roof AGAIN and then fire came and they jumped in the fire! They were so hot! And then they got stuck in a FENCE!

The End.

The F-Word

It's time to talk about something serious.

No, not the ever-changing font on this blog (I'm working on it).

It's time to talk about farts.

Let me first say that I grew up in a house where "fart" was the F-word. The real F-word wasn't even on the radar in my house. Fart was as bad as it got. The fact that I've used the F-word three times in this post already is already making me feel ashamed. And my mother has shut her laptop, again.

Some people grew up in houses where farts were hilarious. I'm told many of these houses were male-dominated. Something about guys and farts, I don't know, it's just magic, I guess. I can recall a family from my childhood that had five boys, and they were big into farts. Farts were all the rage around their house.

But in our house -- no. This was not discussed. We didn't even have cutesie euphemisms like "toot" or "foofer." (Is that a real one? My husband claims so.) We just ignored the subject altogether, and that was that. I remember encountering children who made jokes about farts, or talked about farting, and not knowing what to say to them because they were so wildly inappropriate.

However, if you want to get into the comedy world, fart jokes come with the territory. Fart jokes to the comedy world are like flossing jokes to the dentist world, or like fart jokes to the proctologist world.

Let me clarify, I still don't think actual farting -- in real life -- is that great. They're just not something to celebrate, okay?

Fart noises, on the other hand, are pretty hilarious.

When I was a senior in high school, like, eighteen years old and technically an adult, my friend Sarah and I would go into the school library and make fart noises into our hands. We would find a table in the way back, put down our stuff, and just sit there making sporadic fart noises until we couldn't control our hysterical laughter, or until we were asked to leave.

I am still laughing about it, right now. That's how funny it is to me.

When my husband and I were first married, living in our first place (my parents' basement), I got up to use the restroom while we were watching TV. The bathroom was right by the couch, so I knew he could hear everything I did in there, (which actually makes me really uncomfortable) so I stood in the bathroom and starting making the loudest fart-noises I could into my hands. It was difficult because I was laughing so hard at my own hilariousness. When I came out, I looked at him with my hand on my stomach, like "Oh man I do NOT feel well" and he looked at me like "I cannot believe you are my wife" and it was great. Then I went upstairs to use the bathroom for real.

Now that I'm older, the F-word has taken on new meaning. Currently I am a mother of two soon-to-be-fart-loving boys. I don't know if you know this, but small children will just let them fly any time they feel like it. There is no shame with them. Babies in particular love to let 'em rip, and you can't really help but go with it. Even my mom doesn't get embarrassed. EVEN MY MOM.

Then, when you're potty-training a child, every noise is like a fire alarm, making you jump up with "Do you have to go? Do you have to go potty, honey?" and there isn't as much time laugh as you might like. Instead, you are at the mercy of their digestive system, sitting for hours reading the same story on the floor of your bathroom, just praying to hear one little toot-a-root.

Okay, that just got a little too real. I apologize. I'm not used to talking about this stuff. I'm more used to making fart noises in my hands for cheap laughs.

Frankel Rock

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It’s teething season in our household! That means lots of crying, diaper rash and – if we’re lucky – diarrhea. We’re in a good place.

As I watch my son’s teeth slowly break through the surface, I am concerned about the pain it causes him. However, I am even more concerned about the placement of these new teeth. You see, when my spouse and I decided to procreate, we accepted the possibility that our children would inherit my teeth. This was not a decision to be taken lightly, as my teeth are deeply troubled on a psychological level.

I don’t even know where to begin when it comes to the woes of my orthodontic past. It’s one of those topics where I have trouble deciding what is interesting to everyone, and what is interesting only to me. That said, I will stick to the facts.

FACT: I had perfect baby teeth.

FACT: Once those teeth began falling out, all hell broke lose.

FACT: When I was six years old, an orthodontist put me in braces (including my remaining baby teeth).

FACT: When I was eight years old, I wore a frankel (pictured below).

FACT: My frankel was rainbow-colored with sparkles.

FACT: I still have it (pictured below).

FACT: My son plays with it because he doesn’t know how gross that is.

FACT: When I was nine years old, I had the rest of my baby teeth forcibly removed from my mouth and put into a small envelope.

FACT: When I was ten years old, two fake teeth were attached to my braces to fill in the gaps where the teeth did not grow back after the forced removal.

FACT: When I was thirteen years old, my orthodontist admitted he had no idea what he was doing and recommended I have my jaw reset through surgery.

FACT: For six weeks my jaw was wired shut so the bones could heal.

FACT: I had to eat Thanksgiving dinner through a syringe.

FACT: The oral maxillofacial surgeons who performed the surgery managed to undo all the bush-league orthodontics I’d been put through over the past eight years, and I was able to get my braces off before entering high school.

FACT: With no braces to hold my fake teeth, I got a retainer with teeth attached to it.

FACT: I used to take my teeth out as a party trick.

FACT: I did not get invited to a lot of parties.

FACT: People called me “McTeeth.”

FACT: After high school, I got “implants” (kind of like breast implants) and now my smile is like that of a real girl.

THESE ARE ALL FACTS.

It should go without saying that all of this cost my parents quite a lot of money. The kind of money that I’m just not sure I have on me at the moment. So please, please Lord, let my sons inherit the straight, cavity-free, fully-intact teeth of their father. They can inherit my razor-sharp wit [toenails].

If anyone would like to borrow my frankel, please let me know.