Art Critic

The musical I have been choreographing is opening (and closing!) this weekend, and things are getting intense. I have taught so many twelve-year-olds to sway back and forth, you guys. So many. It sounds easy, but it would blow your mind how difficult basic rhythm is for preteens. Seriously.

Lately I've been so tired that I keep feeling like my real life is a dream. The edges of my vision are kind of blurry, and the sound is kind of muted, and I keep wanting to jump off a table and fly around (something I often do when I know that I'm dreaming).

I am actually drinking a can of Cherry Coke Zero right now to help me WAKE UP!

WRITING IN CAPITAL LETTERS AND USING EXCLAMATION POINTS ALSO HELPS WAKE ME! DON'T I SEEM SO AWAKE RIGHT NOW GUYS?!!!

Anyway, clearly this is all an excuse as to why I have not been posting. I think about posting a lot; I just don't follow through. The other day I considered writing about the picture my son drew that looked like a weird penis but ended up being a catapult. But then I felt badly because he was really proud of the penis-looking catapult. And I don't want to mock my own son, no matter how hilarious I think it would be. I will say that, even now, I am fighting the urge to post the picture I took of the catapult. You guys would die laughing. Ugh. It's so hard to be a decent mother who doesn't publicly-mock her child's artistic ambitions!

And that's where I choose to end this Cherry-Coke-Zero-fueled nonsense: with a vague image of a phallic catapult. Go ahead and imagine what it looks like. Draw your own and send it to me. I will give whoever's drawing comes the closest to the real thing a can of Cherry Coke Zero. Promise.

An actual catapult, from: here.

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?

Aaaaand, unfreeze!

Hi. The world kind of froze for four days and I've been busy spending all of my money on heating and staying indoors with my small, not-annoying children.

While I was gone, however, I did win an important contest (thank you, thank you) and I made a homemade pizza. So it was pretty productive.

This week I was supposed on an environmental learning trip in the North Woods with a bunch of twelve years olds, but then someone was like "oh wait, you could die" so now we are going next week when it will be only twenty below zero, as opposed to thirty below zero.

I'm thinking of live-tweeting the experience, using the neglected @thelazystandup handle on Twitter. What do you think? Posting will be impossible without a computer, plus I'll be busy dissecting owl pellets and supervising the ropes course -- but tweets? Tweets could work.

Think about it. Follow @thelazystandup on Twitter just in case.




P.S. Speaking of cold things, did anyone see Frozen? So good.

Present Overdose

Hello and welcome to my last post of 2013. It's been a delightful year. I started this blog, got yelled at by various strangers, and even slept one time. Memories.

Over the last week, my children received a lot of presents. Like, a lot. We're thinking of buying a second home to contain the presents. Just kidding! We can't afford that because we recently spent all of our money on D batteries. 

After watching my son open gifts for twenty-four hours straight, I've decided that there is a point of diminishing returns when it comes to presents and children. It always starts off great, but by the end you have a crabby, delusional, entitled mess of a tiny human. Allow me to illustrate my point with illustrations:

First Present: Joy! The child is surprised and delighted to receive a gift. 

 

Second Present: Shock and awe. The child is shocked and honored to receive more than one gift.

Presents 3-5: Incomprehensible Jubilation. The child is lost in his own rapture.

Present 6: Confused Frustration. The child is torn between the thrill of receiving new gifts and the desire to actually play with some of the gifts he's been given.

Presents 7-8: Emotional void. The child has lost ability to comprehend more presents. He is momentarily polite.

Present 9: Beginning of rudeness. Now with a second wind (from a candy cane) the child is ready to receive more presents. However, the shock and joy are gone and the expectation of more gifts has commenced. 

Present 10+: Full-blown rudeness. Your child is now a total jerk who does not deserve more presents, but keeps getting them anyway.

Entitled Child. Your child is now fully-over getting presents, and doesn't realize when the presents run out.

Disoriented entitled child. When his hand is not automatically filled with another wrapped present, the child is confused. His sense of how the world works is being shaken to the core.

Take cover. The fall-out of too many presents. There is nothing you can do at this point but detox your child and allow the poison of spoiled-ness work its way through his system. You can also feel ashamed that so many kids don't get any presents and yours literally overdosed on them, but don't dwell on that too long because it's not very upbeat and you're trying to write a comedy blog (right?).
                                             

Anyway, that's what happened at my house.

By the way, do you enjoy the drawings on this blog? You do? That is so nice! Hey, I have an idea. You could support the fine art of stick-figure creations by voting for mine on this blog. That's right! I'm in a contest and currently I'm getting beat by a picture of some little girls eating pasta. Lame, right? I'm better than little kids. For sure I am! Go me!

To vote, make a comment on the blog supporting Picture #2. It's a big deal.

See you next year! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Give Me Pasta Or Give Me Death

Hello. I wanted to let you know that I have been spending time drawing a picture for a different blog today. That is, not this blog. That is, I've been cheating on you.

As I've mentioned before, I am a fan of the blog siriouslydelicious. Basically everything I've ever cooked with moderate success has been found there. You should check it out.

Well, you can imagine my absolute delight when Siriouslydelicious announced a contest to recreate her signature image of the sexy ladies eating spaghetti. [Details here.] Has anything ever been more up my alley? I had to do it.


So, without further ado, I give you the spaghetti girls as seen by The Lazy Stand-Up. I call this piece

"Salad Is For Losers."

Do you think I should submit it????? Do you think the cool blog will like it????? Am I going to get asked to prom??????

Happy Birthday, Stupid!

Last night I spent 25 minutes trying to complete the simple task of selecting a birthday card for my sister. It should not have taken that long. I care about my sister, a lot, but I don't particularly like standing in the card aisle reading card after card of the stupidest humor America has to offer.

How does one become a "funny" birthday-card writer, anyway? Hallmark must advertise those job opportunities during commercial breaks of "Two and Half Men" and "Two Broke Girls" or something. Either that, or they are sending headhunters to fourth grade classrooms.


From what I can tell, if you want to buy a birthday card for an adult female, your choices break down into the following categories:

 
1. You're Old and Ugly!


2. Buy shoes and eat cake, Girl!


 3. Religious.












If you want to buy a card for a male, your choices break down into these categories:





1. Fart Joke



2. Hot Chicks/Sexual Inadequacy



3. Tool belt-Fart Combo













But what happens if you don't want to tell your sister that she's old and ugly, or that she should buy some shoes, or that sisters are God's way of showing His love on earth? And what happens if, on Father's Day, you don't really want to tell your dad that he farts a lot and that he hogs the remote and then farts again? What happens then, greeting card company???

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I am weird for thinking that telling your best friend her boobs are saggy on her birthday is not really in the birthday spirit. But I doubt it. I think many of us would prefer a joke that wasn't insulting to the receiver, but just normal funny. Like, for example:


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: Your boobs look amazing!


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: I bet you have lots of sex and that you are good at it!


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: I hope you get one of those good cakes from Costco and no one insults your body.


Is that so hard? I mean granted, I am a comedic genius, but that took me two minutes to create. Two minutes, and I would buy all of those cards. And people would like them.

So if you want a custom-made, funny, not-made-by-a-fourth-grader greeting card, just let me know. I will go into business. I will change the game and make millions of dollars.  MILLIONS!!!!!!!!!!!

Just say the word.

Why My Son Is Basically Tiny Tim But Without the Health Concerns

The other day my poor, put-upon, three-year-old son was once again feeling disenfranchised. The poor thing is constantly suffering from unfair limitations, such as not being allowed to climb into the refrigerator or hit his brother with a large stick.

On this particular occasion, he was lamenting not being able to go outside. Mind you it was 7:30 PM and pitch-black outside, but still, it was a tragedy of Biblical proportion.

Once the weeping and howling had ceased, I found him standing quietly in the hallway holding a tiny piece of toilet paper.

Here is the conversation that followed, VERBATIM:

     Mommy, do you ask why I am holding this paper?

     (Exasperated.) Why are you holding that toilet paper?

     To dry my tears.

     Oh (suppressing laughter).

     Would you like to dry my tears, Mommy?

     Sure.


And then I literally dried the (nonexistent) tears. The end.

Scaring today's generation.

It's almost Halloween, and you know what that means: time to argue three about when is and isn't an appropriate time to wear one's costume! For all you three-year-olds reading this, here is a list for your reference (p.s. congratulations on knowing how to read!):

Appropriate times for wearing your costume:
1. Costume parties
2. Halloween
3. Dress-up time

Inappropriate times for wearing your costume:
1. While eating spaghetti
2. To bed
3. On the potty
4. Picture day

I hope this helps.

In addition to fighting over wardrobe, Halloween is also a great time to scare your children instead of love them. Unfortunately, our children seem strangely impervious to fear. My three-year-old has watched "Nightmare Before Christmas" like three times now and he loves it. [Have you seen that movie? It's terrifying.] The one-year-old just laughs when you sneak up on him and yell "Boo!" Or "Gotcha!" in a demon voice -- and both of them think monsters are great (thanks a lot, Sesame Street).

What's a mother to do? How can I strike terror into the hearts of my most beloved babies this Halloween?

Well don't worry, that question is rhetorical because I already came up with a great solution. I hereby present my new line of terrifying costumes for mothers of small children. These out-of-the-box looks are guaranteed to make your little pumpkin cry for daddy!

TERRIFYING COSTUMES FOR MOTHERS OF SMALL CHILDREN

 

Enjoy!

The Stranger Who Shamed Me: Vol II

The second installment is here! Thank you once again to all my contributors . . . I'm always happy to publish your humiliating experiences.

Road Rage

 

A few years ago I was driving along a bustling suburban street.  The lane I was in was merging into another lane.  Like the distracted driver I am, I didn't give the other driver the right of way and cut him off.  He probably had to hit his brakes to keep from hitting me.  I admit it.  It was my fault.  I should have been paying more attention and yielded to him.  I can admit it.

 

Of course, he started honking, waving, probably giving me the bird.  I don't remember that part.  The part I remember was pulling into a nearby parking lot, him following me in there, parking me into a parking spot, getting out of his car, coming to my window, and screaming at me.  I mean screaming.  The only thing that made me feel better was all the people around the parking lot who were staring at him with horror.  I like to think they were on my side.

 

-- Liz B.

Parking Patrol

A few winters ago when I was about six months pregnant, I decided to go to the gym after work. It was around 6 PM, already dark outside, and I was circling the lot looking for a parking spot. The car in front of me seemed to be doing the same thing, but I was pleasantly surprised when a spot opened up and he drove right passed it. He must be on his way out, I thought, and happily pulled into the spot. 

I was surprised to see the car had stopped in the middle of the lot, not far from where I'd parked, and I started to get nervous. I didn't know what was happening, so I got out of my car and started to walk to the gym. 

Upon seeing me, the man gets out of his car -- still running in the middle of the parking lot -- and approaches me. I thought I was going to throw up. He had this awful, patronizing smirk on his face, and he goes "You know, I always wanted to talk to somebody like you."

I looked at him: I'm sorry, what?

"Did you not see I was going to park there?"

"Oh, no, sorry. I thought when you drove past it, that meant you were not parking."

"I was going to back in."

"I'm sorry, would you like me to move my car?"

"No, I just always wanted to ask someone like you exactly what was going through your mind when you did something like that."

"Oh. Well I didn't think you wanted the spot."

CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS CONVERSATION? This actually happened to me. I was sweating and nauseous and debating whether or not to run. I wanted to point out that, in that very crowded parking lot, not ONE car was backed-in. Backing-in is not a common thing to expect! But I was too overwhelmed with terror and shame to defend myself.

And this is how the shaming ended:

[Horrible Man]: Can I ask you just one more thing?

[Me]: Okay.

[Horrible Man]: Are you from Minnesota?

[Me]: ...Yeah.

[Horrible Man]: Yep. Figures.

What is that??? What does that even mean??? I don't understand. Are Minnesotans notorious space-stealers or something? Explain yourself, man!

 

Needless to say, my workout was ruined; especially when I saw him come in later and it turns out he WORKS AT THE GYM. 

 

LITERALLY.

 

That was a lot of question marks and capital letters, but I hope you see that they were all very necessary. I still don't walk through that gym without nervously looking for him, and I never wear that winter jacket anymore in hopes that he won't recognize me. Ugh.

It's just one more reason not to work out.

 

--The Lazy Stand-Up

Blondes: What's up with them?

Hello, hi, sorry, hi.

I bet when I wrote “Catch you guys after the bell rings!” you thought I meant that day. Well I thought I meant that, too, but I was wrong, because the last few days have been crazy. Starting a new school year is a lot of work, it turns out. Kids are super needy at the beginning of the year. “Where’s my class? What notebook do I need? Is there homework? Am I adopted? Where do babies come from?” Etc. etc. etc.

You get the idea.

I’ve taught many students over the year, and after meeting this year’s crop, I’ve developed a little theory. It’s kind of strange, but here is the essential question behind it:

Why are all blonde girls tiny?

Each year I have a handful of blonde female students, and I swear, 90% of the time they are also petite in stature. Why?

Even when I think of my friends from growing up who were blonde, most of them were also small. In fact they were small, blonde, and cute: the ultimate trifecta.

Is there something about the blonde-hair genes that also causes overall cute petite-ness?

Because if there is a connection, that’s kind of stacking the deck.  I mean, come on. Leave some for the rest of us, right?

Has this been your experience?

Someone needs a talking to.

A long time ago I wrote this joke:

Having a baby is like riding a bike; they both really hurt your crotch.

Eh? Whaddaya think? Pretty good, right?

I was thinking about that amazing joke because over the weekend I participated in a large-scale bike ride (it was NOT a race, so it's not a big deal that I came in last), and it was intense. I was on my bike for over three hours, peddling, alternately loving and hating life depending on the grade of the road.

The entire experience was actually great except for one moment. One small incident that irked me and is causing me to write a blog entry about it. I was CHASTISED.

There are few things in this world that I dislike more than getting in trouble. (It's a unique attribute, and I am special because of it.)

This particular dressing-down came from a complete stranger which is the WORST because it's so surprising. She was passing me on her bike (probably about the 5,000th person to do so during the ride) and as she went by, she yelled "Stay to the right if you're not passing!"

Until that point, I was happy, enjoying the scenery and singing the lyrics to "Moves Like Jagger" in my head. But that one comment completely shamed me into a guilty hate-spiral in which I felt stupid but also hated that lady so much. I mean it's not like I was weaving all over the place on a busy city street. I mean I don't think I was. I mean you can't prove it.

Have you ever been put in your place by a stranger? Why is it so awful? Is it just my Catholic guilt at work or does everyone feel this way?

I really think people should email me stories of getting in trouble with strangers at thelazystandup@gmail.com and then I will create a post with everyone's stories (anonymous or not, your choice). It would be very therapeutic for all of us.

You should do it.

Yes, you.

I have another story about a time a man actually got out of his car to criticize my parking. It was bad; I don't even want to tell you, but I will -- if you share some good ones with me. See? Motivation.

Can't wait to hear from you!

Why I am sometimes unable to update this blog:

(Also why the drawing of my 10-month-old son looks like a distorted monkey.)

Something to watch during your next lunch break.

Typically when you watch a video online, you're shooting for something in the two/three minute range, but if you have 20 minutes to spare, and you are a comedy nerd, then you should check out this Ted Talk by Bob Mankoff.

He draws and edits cartoons for The New Yorker. It is really fascinating and it will make you want to become a cartoonist. I think.

http://www.ted.com/talks/bob_mankoff_anatomy_of_a_new_yorker_cartoon.html

Thank you Rick D. for sending it my way!

What's Your Sign?

In this day and age, mass communication is literally at the tips of our fingers. If I want to invite sixty people to my house tonight, I can do it in a matter of minutes (I'm not doing that -- don't come over). If I want to tell the world I love brownies, I can just tweet it. Then, in an instant, all three people who follow me on Twitter will know I love brownies.

It's amazing.

And yet, even with this technology being so accessible, when we really want to make a statement and share it with the world -- I mean really get it out there -- we go old-school. Like, old-old school. We get out the magic markers and make big signs.

Going out in public and physically standing next to your message is a lot more powerful than posting it next to your picture on Facebook. There are no privacy-control settings on a poster board -- anyone can see it.

This is why I am often so surprised by the ignorant things people write on signs.

According to signs, God hates so many things. Lately, he seems to hate gay people and gay marriage in particular. I wonder, where are these sign-makers getting their information? Whenever I ask God what he hates, he says genocide. And pistachios.

Of course there are other, less hateful reasons to make a good sign. For example you might be supporting someone during a marathon, or panhandling.

I once made some pretty amazing marathon signs . . . but that is a topic for another entry. We don't have all day, guys. You need to get back to work.

Instead, here are some tips for sign-making. Refer to this entry the next time you are attending a political rally, or running for student-council president:

1. First, you need to go to Walgreens and buy the poster board. I don't know why, but Walgreens always has poster board. If you're really serious, you might want to pony up the extra dough for foam core. It will hold up better if people throw stuff at it.

Did you think you could just tape some regular pieces of printer paper together? Are you an idiot?

2. Once you have the canvas, you'll need the paint. This might mean literal paint, or a chisel-tip sharpie, or large words from the printer cut and pasted. No matter what, your objective is clarity. If they can't read it, they can't heed it! Am I right?

3. Important: spell-check! I can't tell you how many hardcore sign-holders have blown their cause by lack of proofreading. I mean honestly. If you hate gay marriage enough to make a sign about it, maybe look up how to spell marriage.

4. Finally, once your sign is complete, you need to get out there and hold the crap out of it. Some people like to wear their sign, which can be easier on the arms and shoulders, but can also look lazy; use your best judgement.

Note: If you've been hired to draw in more customers for Little Caesars, then you're going to have to do some spinning and dancing. That's advanced-level stuff.

A lot of people don't care about anything enough to go out in public and hold up a sign about it, for example me. So to the people standing on street corners asking me to honk for peace, I respect you. But to the people religiously condemning others for their life choices, you should know that the only thing God hates is genocide, pistachios, and probably your sign.

Though I couldn't say for sure.

Puke and Rally

This weekend I will get in the car and drive with my family to Kansas City, to celebrate the wedding of my cousin and take part in the general scene-making my extended family is known for. It's going to be lovely and embarrassing in the best of ways.

The loveliness of the drive, on the other hand, depends entirely on my children's stomachs.

Last December, we drove the crew down to St. Louis. We were not in the car two hours before my then-two-year-old horked the entire contents of his stomach all over himself. I don't remember what he'd eaten that day, but apparently is was a lot and some of it was orange.

The image of him, standing outside in the dark gas station parking lot, covered in barf, crying, while headlights of other cars passed over him again and again ... well, it will stay with me a long time.

We (and by we, I mean my husband) had to carry him inside the gas station at arms length, clean him up in the pristine gas station bathroom, and put him in the footie-pajamas we'd packed. Another image I'll treasure is of him running through the gas-station McDonald's in Santa footie-pajamas, saying he was ready for more food now that he'd puked.

Memories . . . at the corner of my mind . . .

So basically I am hoping for smooth, dry, odorless sailing this weekend. But if not, at least I will have something to write about next week.

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.

Transubstantiation 4-Eva

-->

The other day I was reading my son some books when our doorbell rang. It was 10:45 AM on a Saturday and we weren’t expecting company, so I sat perfectly still until they went away.

I know; it’s a sad commentary on the slow disintegration of human interaction, but if you are a stranger and you ring my doorbell, I will definitely hide from you and so will my husband. That’s how we roll.

Later that day, I found a pamphlet on our door inviting me to learn how Jesus takes away the sin of the world by going to a Jehovah’s Witness meeting. I felt an immediate wave of relief; our decision to hide was correct.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate this person’s attempt to make me a better person, I do. It’s just that I already have a religion, and like many people I’m not good at getting out of awkward conversation. It would be a long, uncomfortable, and fruitless experience for both of us. Really, I was doing this person a favor by crouching beneath the window and shushing my son repeatedly.

I grew up pretty Catholic. My parents grew up a little more Catholic, and their parents a little more than that. It seems that Catholicism loses some of its potency from one generation to the next. This can be proven by the amount of children each generation has. My grandmother was one of eight; my mother was one of five; I am one of three; and I have two kids. You see where I’m going with this.

I went to Catholic grade school, high school, college, and graduate school (I’m what’s called a quadruple-threat to sin). Basically that means I am very comfortable studying science in a room with a crucifix on the wall. The only non-Catholic educational experience I had was my preschool, which was laid-back Lutheran. Those crazy Lutherans . . . they tried to convince me that the Holy Virgin Mary did not ascend into heaven, but I would not be swayed. Transubstantiation 4-eva!

Fun fact: many great comedians were raised Catholic, such as Jim Gaffigan, Molly Shannon, Alec Baldwin, Jen Kirkman, and Amy Poehler (although I think a lot of these guys are considered “lapsed” at this point). I tried to look up more, but I got a bunch of hits about “Clean Catholic Comedy” “Comedy for Catholics” and “Clean Catholic Comedians.” I’m sorry but no thank you.

There you have it: I have a religion, and while I respect yours I'm not interested in converting to it. So if you're going to drop by for a visit, please phone ahead, or I will mysteriously not be home despite the fact that the car is in the driveway and there's music is on in the garage and my children are just standing there in the doorway staring right at you.

Charles E. Cheese, PHD

I’ve seen many movies in which parents are represented as losers who have given up on being cool or well dressed. It’s always the same: the main character, who is attractive and single, feels down about his/her quest for love and visits his/her older sibling out in the suburbs. There is a chaotic scene of screaming kids and puking and messy hair and the older sibling says “Can’t you see I’ve got my own problems! Having a family is no picnic, honey!” and the main character drives away in their clean, small car feeling freaked out.

I’ve seen this movie many times, and the message has sunk in: parents are gross and sad. But when you become a parent, you start to think: not me! I’m different. I am going to still dress cute and brush my hair and not complain all the time. And it works for a while.

Cool mom.

Then you go to Chuck-E Cheese.

The same person who writes the scenes from the romantic comedies I described above designed Chuck E Cheese; I know it. The entire experience is meant to demoralize parents, and it works. I realized it as I was trying to chase my almost-three-year-old around the games while simultaneously bottle-feeding my crabby baby. It was the most lame I’d ever been, which is saying something because I've never been that cool.

In my mind’s eye I saw normal people, out at nice restaurants drinking wine and laughing. Then I saw myself with spit up on my shoulder and a crusty-eyed* baby with a dirty diaper. It was not a flattering comparison.

Uncool mom.

I felt embarrassed for myself, which was dumb, because the only people who could see me were in the exact same position. I thought I could escape the stereotype, and that being a parent wouldn’t make me like this. But it DOES, and I have to accept it.

In the words of Marge Simpson: “If loving my kids is lame, then I guess I’m just a big lame.”

I know people make parenting look in their cute Facebook photos and humble-brag status messages: Tyler just sang the ABC’s in Spanish! Oh my gosh people are staring!:), but make no mistake, there is a less-charming side. And no one escapes it. I don’t care what you say. NO ONE. Chuck E. Cheese will find you, my friends. He will find you, and he will make you uncool.

*My son has a blocked tear duct. Stop judging me!

Suspicious Eyes

This is a little “FYI” for all the naughty people in the world – if you are up to no good, it is not advisable to look directly at the person from whom you are hiding it.

When my child or my students are being sneaky and trying to get away with something, they always stare at me. They think if they keep an eye on me, then they won’t get caught. But in reality, they wouldn’t even be on my radar if they weren’t burning holes through me with their eyes.

Is there anything more suspicious than someone staring at you for no apparent reason? 

Exhibit A: In the hallways at school

 

Exhibit B: Reading Time

 Exhibit C: Play time

 

I shouldn't even be telling you this. I don't want the naughty to succeed in their efforts, but I am sick of having to step in all the time. So just get a way with a few things, now and then, and lighten my work load. Please. 

Confession:

You know how sometimes you find out you're a freak? You live your life thinking "the things I do are normal" and then one day the illusion comes crashing down around you when you realize that adults don't get milk-mustaches. 

I'm not talking about cool "Got Milk?" mustaches. I'm talking about regular milk (or Kool-Aid, or CranApple Juice, or Purple Stuff) mustaches, the kind small children get because they don't know how to properly drink from a cup. I get those. Me. And I'm not five.

I was sitting there with my friends, drinking a refreshing drink, when someone goes "Um, you have a drink mustache." I'm like, yeah, I always get those! And everyone else was like "How?" and I was like, I don't know. And they were like "That's weird." And I was like oh.

And that is how I found out that I am a weirdo who drinks in a weird way. Allow me to explain:

 

I prefer drinking this way because it allows me to use powerful suction to draw the drink into my mouth, like a straw:

 

I think maybe I do this because when I was in 8th grade I had jaw surgery and my jaw was wired shut for six weeks. But I'm not sure. All I know is that I prefer to drink this way, even if it has some negative side effects:

 

I needed to get that off my chest. If you're completely thrown-off and prefer not to follow the blog anymore, I understand. But you should know that makes you a jerk.

Also, does anyone else drink this way? Please. Someone has to.