Crunch Time

We are leaving for an epic spring-break trip tomorrow night!

My husband and I (and many of my in-laws) are taking our children to the magical land of Orlando to see Mr. Mouse as well as Mr. Legoland. We're terribly excited.

Here's the thing: I imagine my children and I will need certain items while we're down there, such as clothes and shoes and sunscreen and sippy cups and blankies and pajamas and swimsuits and hats and cameras and toothbrushes and stuff to do on the plane and snacks.

And I have not packed one item yet. And I don't know where it all is. And I don't feel like doing any of it.

I have to go.

Eye Contact First, Crotch Later

My darling friend and colleague will be getting married in a few weeks, so a group of us recently hit the town in her honor. We ate some food, we drank some drinks, and we ventured onto the dance floor.

I love to dance. Dancing is the best. I would die a hundred deaths if I ever saw a video of myself dancing, but I still love it. That said, the dance floor of a bar around 12 AM is just horrifying. And the reason for this is fairly simple: GROSS DUDES.

Here is what happens when you are in a group of females on the dance floor after midnight: You stand in a circle and dance with each other. You have fun. You lip-sync the words to songs and pretend to play a giant saxophone (maybe that one is just my friends?). Anyway, it always starts off great.

Then you notice some creepers working the perimeter of your circle. They stand there, just behind the circle, waiting. They are like lions waiting for one girl to fall off the pack so they can pounce.

They pretend like they're dancing, like they're just out there having a good time, but really they're waiting. Waiting like the creepy-creepertons that they are.

When guys do this, I cannot help but laugh in their face. "We are old!" I want to scream. "We already went through our stupid phase -- you're too late!"

(I do yell this sometimes, actually, but the music is too loud for the creepers to here me. Their ears are too full of beer and what I can only guess is a drunken version of testosterone.)

But at least those guys have the decency to wait for a girl to give them the time of day before they swoop in -- because there are OTHER, CREEPIER guys, who just introduce themselves by way of pelvic thrusts into your backside.

Picture this: you're out there dancing, having a good time, when suddenly there is a body behind you. The body presses into you, like it knows you, like the two of you are close enough to just mount each other with out making eye contact. But then you realize something: this body belongs to a person who you've never met before in your entire life. And he's pushing his groin into you like he's trying to make a screen print on your jeans.

Is this meant to be a greeting? How are women supposed to respond to this? "Oh hi! Whoever this is, great! I am happy to have your strange body rubbing against me. Maybe one day I could see your face and speak to you directly, but for now, this is just so great."

I can't take it.

Ladies, if any of you are approving these backwards attempts at romance, please stop. You should know that these guys are so desperate for your attention that you can demand eye-contact-first-crotch-later interaction. What do you have to lose? The weird slimy dude's smelly gross body? I'd say that's a risk worth taking.

And then, one day, when we all agree to hold gross dudes to a higher standard, they will have no choice but to abide by the new rule. I'm pretty sure that is the mission statement of feminism.

Eyes first. Crotch later.

(Maybe.)

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.

My Super-Serious Condition That I Have Now

Way back when I was an adolescent, I was sitting in the kitchen one day eating my breakfast before school. Next to me sat my sister, and across from us stood my mother, who never sits but instead cleans incessantly.

My sister and I were eating a typical breakfast of cereal. I don't know what kind. I'd say it was Life, or maybe Corn Pops. Not sure. Not the point.

Anyway, the reason this particular breakfast stands out to me over all the others is because of a little  incident that took place. You might call it an outburst. I don't know. Just shhh...

It was quiet in the kitchen that day, no one was really in the habit of friendly chit-chat in the morning. However, one sound did mange to cut through the silence: the sound of my sister eating.

I don't know if it was because I was overtired, or if I was having a bad week or something, but everything about the process of my sister's cereal-eating was so disgusting that day I couldn't take it. The click of the spoon against the teeth, the slightest slurp of the milk as it went in her mouth, the gross semi-soggy crunch of the Corn Pops (or Life?)  as she mashed them into mush. Ughhh. Even now, I can't stand to think of it.

Eventually I lost it. OH MY GOD STOP CLICKING YOUR SPOON IT IS SO DISGUSTING! Or something like that. Something mature and reasonable.

Both my mom and sister stopped dead in their tracks, shocked by my sudden rage, and then gave me the "you-are-the-rudest-teenager-and-we-are-ashamed-to-be-related-to-you" look -- something I was not unfamiliar with in those days.

At the time I just continued to be rude, indignant that they didn't hear how gross those noises were. But now I realize, thanks to  this article, that the way my sister was eating her cereal that day was not actually gross. She was probably eating in a very normal, polite way. In fact, most people whose disgusting mouth noises have driven me over the edge have probably not been doing anything gross or weird with their mouths. It's me. It's my ears. I have misophonia.

This is a shock to me, of course. Misophonia is a thing? Really? Well, probably not, but still. I might have a condition, y'all. A straight-up condition. And the condition is not me using the phrase "y'all," despite being by all accounts not-Southern. It's that my ears and brain are in a toxic relationship called misophonia.

Is it possible that all of those kissing scenes in movies are actually not horrifying to listen to?

Is it possible that my husband's gum chewing is not the worst sound that's ever crossed my ear holes?

Is it possible that my anger was not righteous, but unfounded?

My husband chewing gum.

Eh, not sure.

C.P.A.

I've been meaning to tell you about a new development in my house. I believe the term is CPA, or "constant pointless arguing." My two children, little darlings that they are, have taken to bickering about just about everything they could possibly ever argue about. Such as:
1.

 

2: 

 

Even when they are not in the same room, they find reasons to argue.

 

3.

Here are my responses to the above scenarios:

1. You are both Batman.  An evil genius cloned you and no one knows which Batman was the original, so now you share an apartment like an action-packed version of the Odd Couple. And go.

2. Everything is out my window because my window is the windshield! You both lose!

3. STOP TALKING! GO TO BED! NO ONE IS DREAMING ABOUT TURTLES TONIGHT SO HELP ME GOD!

Anyway, I don't know where they get this. I never argued with my sisters growing up. We just read books, braided each others' hair, and baked cookies for our dolly tea parties. My favorite doll was Celeste, but sometimes one of my sisters would want play with Celeste, so I would be like "Excuse me, that is my dolly" and she would be like "Oh I beg your pardon, I thought it was my turn" and I would politely say "No, it not" and she would courteously say "Oh but it is" and I would charmingly scream "NO IT'S NOT!" and she would sweetly scream "I WISH MOM AND DAD NEVER HAD YOU!" and I would say "I AM GOING TO CUT OFF YOUR HAIR WHILE YOU SLEEP TONIGHT" and so on and so forth.

So what I'm saying is, who knows where these boys get it?