Tech Tickets; or, how to pry the video game controller out of your kid's deformed, claw-like hands

Summer drags on. There's still a whole month of it left! My kids are BORED, you guys. Like...so...SO...bored.

Boredom = too much screen time. It's mathematical fact. We start out the day with cartoons, and then it's hot and I've got stuff to do and suddenly it's noon and I'm like wait, are you guys seriously still on the couch?? So we turn it off and then 4 minutes later they're SO BORED MOM THERE'S NOTHING TO DO PLEASE CAN I JUST PLAY TEMPLE RUN ON YOUR PHONE PLEASE PLEASE!

Now. We still use our Bored Jar pretty consistently, and it does work. But still, it's a constant battle of "No, no more TV. No, you cannot play on my phone. No, you don't need to play the Wii again." Yesterday the 7 year old took the Bored Jar around the corner and MAGICALLY pulled the ONE slip that involves playing video games. AMAZING!

So I hit up Pinterest and came across some good ideas for screen time management, including Technology Tickets. I didn't invent the idea, there are lots of much better and more imaginative bloggers out there who shared their awesomeness first. My favorite was this one from Mudpies and Makeup. I borrowed some of her ideas and put my own spin on them, to make them fit our family. She has a free printable over there, though, if you're interested! I totally don't. I'm not that handy, and I'm not that helpful.*

I chose to give them each 12 tickets at the start of the week. This is because we're normally not home on Sundays, so it's the other 6 days of the week I'm worried about. Twelve tickets gives them an hour a day for those 6 days. I didn't want them to have to earn every ticket so I'm giving them an hour a day to start, but we will be using them as a discipline tool, too. And knowing my feisty 7 year old, she may lose more tickets than she uses at first. BUT I built in some ways to earn them back, or to earn extras, by doing educational or helpful activities around the house. WIN-WIN.

To make the Tech Tickets "board":

I designed the rule sheet, printed it on card stock, then made the tickets and cute little library pockets with my Silhouette Cameo and scrapbook paper. If you have a Silhouette, I used this file for the tickets (I chose to fill them and print them, then just cut them out with scissors because my Silhouette machine was doing other things and I was too impatient to wait and use it to cut them all nice and pretty). I laminated them for extra strength, then used this file to make the pockets out of scrapbook paper that looked like lined paper (I had to resize the pockets somewhat to fit my tickets). I cut the names in vinyl using a typewritery font, and stuck them on the pockets.

Then I just glued the rules sheet and the pockets to a piece of 12x12 scrapbook paper and hung it up in the kitchen. I thought about adding a third pocket for "used" tickets, but then I wised up and realized we'd better put them up somewhere out of reach to ensure nobody tries to...recycle. Yeah, Bianca is a sneaky one. We're working on it. Don't judge.

Jack is only 2, but he loves to do everything just like his sister, so he'll like turning in his own tickets. He's big enough to ask for my phone constantly, so I guess he's big enough to go get a ticket and hand it over first!

So. Today is day 1 of the Great Tech Ticket Experiment, and I'm at work (on my lunch break! Calm down!). So the O.G. is home with the kiddos and I guess I'll find out when I get home whether it worked. :)

Why am I expecting to come home to find all the tickets either used up or lost?

*UPDATE!! So many of you asked that I went ahead and made myself helpful after all. You can download the pdf of my sign here.

Always Have a Clean House

I came across this on Pinterest. I'm not sure who I'm following on Pinterest who would Pin such a thing, but rest assured I am going to address that as soon as I'm done here.

source (I'm sure she's lovely, and she should know that I'm only doing this out of jealousy.)

I decided that I should make my own, more realistic version. Feel free to Pin it to your "Good Housekeeping" board. You are so. welcome.

Louisa May Alcott actually died of tuberculosis. For the record.

So. My son had croup.

Remember my son? We call him the Monster in these parts.

He'll be 2 next month. TWO YEARS OLD. My BABY. He just turned 1 last week.

Anyway. Croup.

Or as I like to call it, The Croup.

Text message conversation between me and Ashley last week:

Her: "A. [that's her daughter] has croup."
Me: "What? Croup? Who is she, Louisa May Alcott??"
Her: "Croup is a modern day disease! You're thinking of cholera. Or the dropsy."
Me: "No way, dude. Kids in Little Women and Anne of Green Gables were always getting The Croup."
Me (after some fancy google work): "Croup was once a deadly disease caused by diphtheria bacteria. However, modern day antibiotics and immunizations have helped prevent or treat it. Today, most cases of croup are mild. See? Kids in old books were always dying of The Croup."
Her: "Well. There you go."

Naturally, after all of this, my son woke up the next morning burning with fever and barking like a baby seal.

Baby seal photo added for visual interest. Isn't he cute?? I'm sure he doesn't have croup, don't worry.

Of course our entire family was concerned and sympathetic. I stayed home from work for 3 days to cradle him and love him and let him give me slobbery croup-germy kisses.

When he wasn't coughing, he was breathing like Darth Vader. It was pitiful. And it led his loving big sister to initiate conversations like this:

"MONSTER!" [She didn't really call him that, you guys. She called him by his actual name.] "STOP IT!"

Me: "Honey, he's not doing it on purpose. He's SICK. Leave him alone."

Her: "No, mom. He keeps BREATHING and it's really LOUD and ANNOYING."

Me: "I know. He's sick, he can't help it. Please stop yelling at him."

Her: "He looked RIGHT at me and then he started breathing LOUDER. Make him STOP."


In conclusion. Don't call your friends' kids Louisa May Alcott when they get weird old-timey diseases, and also don't have a mouthy 6-year-old daughter. You're welcome.

That Diet Coke was lying in wait.

I had a Wordless Wednesday post all ready for you guys this morning, but it'll have to wait. Because I have words.

So, you guys remember the Diet Coke that ruined my day last week, right?

It struck again.

OK, this is the point where I'm forced to confess the state of my car. My husband will read this and yell "IT'S DISGUSTING." He won't even sit in my car. Which is good, because there's no room for him.

It's not my fault! You've seen this, right?

I saw this on Facebook and according to that little logo in the corner, it originated at nickmom.com

This is a photo of my passenger seat that I snapped this morning when I got to work. It is undoctored.

I count 3 empty Mountain Dew containers. A box of...stuff. A bag of foam pistols (long story). Some dirty kid clothes (the clothes are dirty, not the kid. Mostly). A random cup. A bag of cherries from my mother's tree. My laptop. A ziploc bag filled with crushed graham crackers. And that's the FRONT SEAT.

So. This morning I got the kids in the car, and I got all our stuff in the car (no small feat), and I got in the car, and I realized I had no free cupholder for my morning Dew.

Because that Diet Coke was still there. Yes, it was still there a week later. And because it's Diet Coke, it was still completely full.

I almost just set it on the garage floor to deal with later, but no, I decided to be responsible and take it out to the garbage.

So I took this large, very full, week-old Diet Coke outside, and I opened the lid to the trash can, and I dropped it in. As I was about to let go I thought, wait, I should dump it out, right? Like, in the dirt or something? I mean that's a lot of liquid to dump in the trash can. Plus I think the trash can is empty because it was just trash day so there are no cushy bags of used diapers to break the fall; this thing is going to hit the bottom of the can and splatter.

I thought all these thoughts in the split second before I let go. I leaned forward to confirm that the can was, in fact, empty.

It was.

But I lost my grip. I dropped the cup. While I was still poised OVER the can, peering down at the bottom.

It didn't splatter. Splatter doesn't cover it. Not remotely.

It was like...I'd shot a Diet Coke missile. And the missile hit an immovable object at high velocity and backfired STRAIGHT INTO MY STUPID FACE.

It was indescribable. Truly. One second I'm being a responsible adult, tossing my week-old Diet Coke into the trash can instead of leaving it on my garage floor. The next I am drenched in week-old Diet Coke. Diet Coke that has been sitting in my black car, in June, in California, for a week.

Thank goodness I wear glasses. That's all I can say. My glasses were coated in it but my eyes were largely protected. Until it began to drip, that is.

I turned around and went back into the garage, in a state of shock. My poor children. Mommy steps outside for a moment, her usual svelte and together self (ha), and steps back in looking like a swamp monster. My hair was dripping, my shirt splattered in sticky brown goo, my eyes squeezed shut to block out the toxins.

I went inside and spent a few minutes mopping up. Did you know week-old Diet Coke is an effective makeup remover? Ate my foundation right off my face. Mascara was dripping down my cheeks. And my hair. Oh, my hair.

You guys, my kids were already in the car! It was time to go! I took two minutes to rub a wet wash cloth over my face and through my hair, changed my shirt, rinsed my glasses, and...off we go!

So that's why I was late to work this morning.

How much of that story do you think my boss needs to hear?

My "SORRY!" face

So I went to the gas station the other day.

Because I needed gas.

All the pumps were full except one, and that one was on the wrong side, so I would have had to back in. Only as a general rule I don't drive backwards in public or crowded spaces, because driving backwards has a tendency to make me run into things.

Shut up.

So. I'm looking at this gas pump, and I'm thinking, you know? A lot of these stations have those extra long hoses now, that are made to go on either side of the car.

Now, usually those gas stations have signs indicating that their hoses are extra long and made to go on either side of the car.

You know. Like this.

And I saw no such sign. But, using my highly mathematical brain, I eyeballed the hose and decided it was probably long enough.

Do I really need to tell you the outcome of that experiment?

It wasn't long enough, you guys.

I swiped my card, pushed the start button, dragged the nozzle...halfway around the back of my car. No dice.

Great. Now people were watching, of course. So I put the nozzle back. I'd have to turn around. But my credit card was already in that pump, so I needed to hurry up and get turned around and get back. I climbed back into the car just as this guy pulled up in front of me and hit his blinker, obviously assuming I was leaving.

But I was not leaving. I pulled out into the space right in front of him and executed a stunningly graceful 8- or 9- or possibly 13-point turn until I was facing the right direction, and sloooooowly backed in, up to the pump. I didn't hit anything! So there's that.

While I was doing this, of course, I looked at the guy and shot him my silent "SORRY!" face. You know that face? You have one, too. This face, in my head, is not only totally comprehensible as meaning "SORRY," it's also so very adorable that nobody could possibly remain irritated with me while I'm making it.

In actuality...

I mean...that totally looks like I'm saying "SORRY," right??

By the time I finished this whole spectacle, of course, the machine had canceled my transaction and proceeded to sit there, frozen, for a good 3 minutes until it finally cleared out and let me start over.

By then there were like 4 open spots that would have been on the right side of my car. Turn-signal dude just shook his head and took one of those.

SORRY.

Reasons I don't like you: master's student edition

You guys.

I'm sorry.

That was like, an unprecedented dry spell, wasn't it?

I'm back now.

Here's the deal: May is Hell Month in the life of Alyssa.

See, my regular, full-time day job is at a university. One of my duties is editing and compiling the academic catalog each year. This wraps up in May so it's a very busy month in my day job.

My second, side job is as a Thesis Reader, also for the university. I proofread master's theses and doctoral dissertations before they go to publication. Students turn them in each year in, you guessed it...May. At the moment I have 14 of these (ranging from 50 to 200 pages, depending on the discipline and on the student and quite frankly, on the student's discipline), all due back by the end of the month.

Then there's my third job, blogging. And also my new Etsy shop (coming soon: an actual post featuring products from said Etsy shop and possibly even a giveaway!).

And oh yeah, I have a husband and two children and a home and laundry and what not.

So. That's why you haven't seen much of me.

Thesis reading is a fun job. By fun I mean not really fun so much as interesting except when it's not interesting at all and it's excruciatingly boring or worse, painful.

I've been doing this for 5 years now and I'm quite good at it. I can tell when I open one whether it'll be fun or interesting or boring or painful. Here are some of my red flags.

1. If your thesis is more than an inch thick, I don't like you.
2. If your major is anything in Education, chances are, I don't like you. And also I fear for the youth of America.
3. If there's a typo on your title page (YES IT HAPPENS), I really don't like you.
4. If I go to cross-check your references and I can't find John Bowling because he's on page 4 of the reference list, I don't like you. Anybody whose name begins with B should appear on the first page. If Bowling is on page 4 THAT'S TOO MANY REFERENCES FOR ME TO CHECK AND GUESS WHAT I DON'T LIKE YOU.
5. If your thesis contains more than 2 tables, I don't like you.
6. If your thesis contains figures, I don't like you.
7. If you use a lot of words like "t-test" and "bivariate" and your thesis is peppered with seemingly random italicized letters like n and s, I don't really like you. Yes I know what this stuff means but I don't want to and I blame you.
8. If you're a Psychology major with a concentration in Behavior Analysis and you've written a 150-page thesis about pigeons pecking colored buttons, I do not like you.
9. If your margins are wrong, I don't like you. Seriously. They're margins. If you can't handle setting your margins, I'm terrified of what else I'm about to experience.
10. If you didn't use APA to format your thesis, I don't like you. Yes, I was an English major and we used MLA, but that was more years ago than I care to count, and since then I've become thoroughly converted to APA. I especially don't enjoy having to learn Turabian overnight so I can proofread your thesis.
11. If you didn't proofread, I do not like you.
12. If you misuse hyphens, we will never be friends. I don't like you.
13. If you think "data" is a singular, I don't like you.

So. How has your May been so far?

The good news? In June I get paid for this nonsense and in June I WILL BE RICH. And then maybe I'll like all these people a little more.

I hope those bubbles are nontoxic.

Spring has sprung. Happy April, everybody. 

May your bubble solution taste every bit as hilarious as ours.

Elf Revisited: Linking up with Blogging Bash

I'm linking up with Alison and Ado for the 1st Anniversary Blogging Bash (their first anniversaries, not mine). If you don't already read Alison at Mama Wants This! and Ado at The Mamalog, you should start now.

For their blogiversary, these ladies have asked us all to choose a favorite old post and link it up. I know, you'd prefer something new and exciting. Well, look, this is their party, ok? I'm just a guest. So deal with it.

I chose this, the stunning conclusion of my Elf on the Shelf drama from last winter. I'm not sure why, I just reread it and it made me laugh, so there you go.

It's part of a series of sorts, detailing my harrowing experience acquiring an Elf on the Shelf. It all began with my utter failure to to win a free Elf on the Shelf from Sara at The Periwinkle Papillon. You can read the complete story in the archives, if you're truly interested or if you're avoiding doing your job or something. Here.

But this is the happy ending. So here it is!

Simmer down. Elf acquired.

OK, you can all RELAX. I know, this has been weighing on your mind all weekend: are Alyssa's children being tormented by Gnarles the Zombie Baby Elf?? Well, they weren't. Calm down.

Grandma pulled through and discovered an Elf on our doorstep when she dropped by to bring us some cookies (seriously. She brought us cookies. She would be exactly like a cartoon Grandma, except that her husband baked them. Also they were leftover Halloween sugar cookies, mushed up to disguise the fact that they were meant to be pumpkins. So they were basically orange smoosh cookies).

Our Elf is named Jacob. The Princess tried to play it cool at first, like, eh, maybe he's a real Elf, maybe he's not, but then when she slept and he MOVED?! Totally. Convinced. "Oh, Jacob," she gushed when she discovered him swinging from the kitchen chandelier Saturday morning. "I justknew you were a real Elf! How did you get up there, you crazy Elf?!"

Jacob had brought with him a "make your own snowman ornament" craft kit, so we set about making our own snowman ornaments. We decided this was probably Jacob's way of telling us it was time to take down the Halloween decorations and put up some Christmas cheer, so we did just that.

Daddy heroically risked serious injury or death hanging lights on our very tall new house, climbing a ladder much higher than any he has climbed before. We discovered after he was done that the ladder has a 200 lb. weight limit. tHe O.G. is a little closer to, say, 235. But he lived! It's a Christmasmiracle! And the house looks fabulous!

Actually the house looks a little out of place, because we find ourselves living in a very, very nice neighborhood (as in, we're the only renters on the block, yo) and apparently there's an unspoken rule in very, very nice neighborhoods that you decorate with white lights only. tHe O.G. doesn't hang white lights. He just doesn't. That's not how tHe O.G. rolls. So there's our very, very nice (did I mention tall?) house in our very, very nice new neighborhood, enthusiastically draped corner to corner in furiously bright multicolored, blindingly, dazzlingly multicolored LED lights.

And the neighbors' houses in their demure and elegant white-lighted glory look down on us with dismay.

And we're cool with that.

Santa likes color, y'all. Everybody knows this.

Sunday morning we found Jacob the Elf had rather unwisely positioned himself on the playroom floor surrounded by blocks. After the Monster gleefully destroyed all of Jacob's towers and castles, he set his sights on the Elf himself, and I was forced to intervene. Now, if you're familiar with Elf on the Shelf lore, you know that touching the Elf is strictly verboten.

The Princess was torn: surely we should not move the Elf from his chosen resting place. On the other hand, would Jacob prefer a quick move to safety, or being chewed on by her Monster of a baby brother? So we opted for a quick, frantic, hot-potato move to safety, chanting "I'm sorry Jacob, I'm sorry Jacob, I'm sorry Jacob" all the way to the top of the refrigerator. We then informed Jacob that he needed to find higher resting spots from now on. This could be challenging. For Jacob.

This morning we found Jacob perched atop a speaker on the wall, clutching a tube of glitter glue. He'd added some bling to the big "Merry Christmas" sign the Princess had made to hang above the fireplace. Oh, that Jacob.

Text Message...well, Wednesday. The get fit edition.

Remember Text Message Tuesday? Remember Ashley? Of course you do.

Here we go:

Alyssa says
i worked out this morning. on the elliptical. i got up EARLY and WORKED OUT.

[Editor's note: this elliptical.]

Editor's note: NOT. ME.

Ashley says
And I'm eating Carmelita's for breakfast. What a strange turn of events.

Alyssa says
indeed.
oh, also? I'M DRINKING WATER.
i mean, i had my morning dew, obviously, but instead of cracking open another one right after, i chose water.

Ashley says
Oh my. What's gotten into you?

Alyssa says
i was possessed by some weird wild idea last night to step on the scale.

Ashley says
Oh

Alyssa says
i did not like what i saw. at. all.
so how are your carmelitas? what ARE carmelitas?

Ashley says
I'm not sure I should tell you.

Alyssa says
whatever, there are donuts for sale 10 feet from here. if i can resist those i can resist your carmelitas description.

Ashley says
I pinned them a few days ago. It's Carmel and chocolate and yummy crust all smooshed together. So good
I'm going to finish the pan so that they're gone. Then I'm starting my diet.

Alyssa says
but not better than oatmeal squares and water, right?

Ashley says
Um, no way. So gross compared to that.
How long did you elliptical for?

Alyssa says
haha. i'm not telling because it's shameful. i did as much as i could, ok? considering i haven't worked out in, oh, 6 or 7 years.

Ashley says
Come on.

Alyssa says
no way! my husband already made fun of me, i don't need it from you too. just be proud that i DID it.

Ashley says
I will be! Tell me! What was it? 5 minutes?

Alyssa says
like, imagine i'm one of those huge women who has to be lifted by crane, and i just got out of bed and walked upstairs. YAY!!!

Ashley says
No, cuz you're not one of those women.

Alyssa says
it was 10 minutes, dude.

Ashley says
Okay, 10 minutes is great! Good job!

Alyssa says
You are such a liar.
i'm pretty sure on the inside, i AM one of those women. i was trying to remember the last time i exercised and i actually CANNOT remember.

Ashley says
I remember. You got on a kick last summer and went walking a few times.

Alyssa says
hahaha. walking. that doesn't even count. everybody walks.

Ashley says 
I think I tried to tell you that at the time and you were all "but I made a drop of sweat! It counts!"

Alyssa says
i was lying to myself. you know that.
and really, i guess for a woman who has to be lifted by crane, it DOES count. but this counts WAY MORE.

***

It totally DOES, right you guys? I'm going to drop those 5 or 10 or 30 pounds in NO TIME, right?? Right?

FANCY Friday: A Guest Post for the Magnificent Mr. Carlos

Hey guys,

If you didn't catch it on Twitter, here's the link to my guest post from last week. I decided to throw my cousin a bone and grace his blog with my benevolent presence.*

Head over and check out my contribution to his FANCY Friday series, where I list all the fanciest items I simply MUST purchase (or accept as gifts. Call me).  Go on and click.  I wrote it, so of course you'll like it.



*OK, in all honesty, he IS my cousin so I'm obligated to give him a hard time, but he's really a good guy and a smart, funny writer and an active sailor with the U.S. Navy, so you kind of owe him. Go check him out.

Do the Dew. Unless you don't want to dissolve from the inside out. I'm on the fence.

So. I'm innocently surfing Twitter and the lovely Alyssa Milano tweets this:

Look, I've read all the stories about putting a tooth in a cup of Coke and it disappears in 48 hours or whatever. I get it. Soda is battery acid. Whatevs. My problem with this story is the marketing.

In short: Guy claims to have found a mouse in his Mountain Dew, wants some cash from Pepsi to compensate him for the trauma. And we're not talking millions, here. He wants $50,000, you guys. That's all he's asking. Peanuts.

Still, Pepsi doesn't want to admit defeat and lose $50,000 if there really was no mouse, right? No. They want to prove there was no mouse. And don't worry! Pepsi and their multimillion dollar PR team have got this one, y'all. Oh man, this is so good. This guy thinks he can mess with Pepsi? Oh no he didn't. So they gather all their marketing gurus and Harvard lawyers and prepare the following water-tight defense:

"Nuh-UH! A mouse would dissolve instantly in Mountain Dew! Animal flesh and bone cannot even HANDLE the Dew; animal flesh and bone exposed to the Dew would turn into jelly in a matter of weeks. So we submit that there is no way you found a recognizable mouse in that can! Oh, SNAP." [high fives all around]

Sigh.

Come on, Pepsi. Help a girl out. I've stuck with you through the High-Fructose Corn Syrup scandal, the "Mountain Dew causes infertility" rumors. I'm addicted committed to your fine bubbly neon yellow hyper-caffeinated beverage and I'm really trying to stick with it. I want to keep Doing the Dew. I'm giving it all I've got here but you've gotta throw me a bone.

I'm thinking maybe...maybe...a better approach would've been, "Oh, dude. A mouse? Gross. We are so sorry. That was a freak factory accident; that never happens. Here's your 50K. And a lifetime supply of delicious, non-mouse-containing, nontoxic, noncorrosive Mountain Dew! Have a nice day."

This is why Pepsi should pay me a lot of money to do their marketing.

Things I want to make Angela say out loud: Stateside edition

I know, I've been M.I.A. for far too long. Here are my excuses: I'm sick. My kid got me sick. The little one. The one who pushes his snotty little face up against mine and demands kisses. And like a sucker I comply. And then I get sick.

Before I got sick, I was unplugged for awhile because Angela (you remember Angela, don't you?) was here! She flew all the way from Australia to be with me (ok, and her family or whatever, but mostly ME) for the holidays! So I was busy last week packing a year's worth of fun, memories, and stupid inside jokes into FIVE. AMAZING. DAYS. And I think we did a pretty good job, because we're awesome like that.

She has friends all over the state so she did a tour of California (it takes some time, east coasters!), but obviously I'm the greatest and most important of all her friends so I got a whole week of her time before she headed to the Bay Area where her parents live. Now she's with her family for Christmas, and she goes back Down Under on the 27th (let me know if you need flight numbers or anything, stalkers).

She brought my children many presents, including some book about a wombat or something. No, it's not a wombat, it's a possum. She threatened to bring some Australian "childhood classic" called Wombat Stew wherein a number of animals posing as friendly neighbors gang up and poison a wombat or something.

OK wait...I just read the Amazon description and it actually sounds quite lovely and cute. What is wrong with you, Angela? Why did you tell me these animals were ganging up to poison the wombat when they were actually saving him? I worry about you, I really do.

Well, possibly she's been traumatized by my reaction to the book she bought my child years ago, "Love You Forever" (creepiest. book. ever.), and is terrified to bring anything even hinting of controversy into my home. Wise move. So the one she brought is not Wombat Stew, it's actually about a possum. Possum Magic. It's a cute story. And I guess a slightly more normal animal; we have possums here.  Or are they opossums? I really don't know. Or care. Moving on.

So now my daughter is fully educated regarding the wildlife of Australia. Wombats, possums, kangaroos, koalas, emus, kookaburras, tasmanian devils (evidently they don't actually spin around like tornadoes), dingoes (don't worry, I warned her that they eat babies).

Sugar gliders look terrifying. Also? An echidna looks suspicously like a porcupine.

Yeah. Apparently that's a wombat. Some kind of furry pig? I don't know. It doesn't look particularly appetizing to me.

Angela also brought my 5-year-old...a boomerang. A "Genuine Australian Returning Boomerang."

"Guarantee to return...when thrown correctly." 

It's winter here (not like in backwards Australia, where it's inexplicably summer), so we haven't actually ventured outside to attempt to "throw correctly" this boomerang. I'll let you know how that goes, though. Possibly one or both of my children are about to die. I don't trust inanimate objects that come back to you when you throw them.

So. It's been awhile since I did "Things I want to make Angela say out loud," right? I think it's about time for another installment.

We'll call this the Stateside Edition. Don't worry, Aussies (Roz, Lizzie, Triona, I'm talking to you. I know you're reading this, because I am an international phenomenon) (Yes, I know Triona isn't an Aussie but whatever. If you want me to think of you as Irish you may need to come visit me and prove your Irishness. It'll be fun! I bake!). Maybe I'll do another Aussie edition for you after she returns.

If she returns. I'm still holding out hope that she'll change her mind and stay, frankly.

So.


Things I want to make Angela say out loud, stateside edition:

(With feeling, please, Ang. And I realize your tradition is to read this to your housemates and they're not around right now, so you can read to your mom or somebody. Just read it out loud. Humor me.)

1. Australia sucks. I'm staying right here. 
2. You know what? American peanut butter is SO MUCH BETTER than that junk they sell in Australia. I LOVE American peanut butter. I think I'll just stay home and eat it for the rest of my life.*
3. Hey, girl. You want a toothpick?**
4. I've lived in Australia for two years of my life and I still cannot even come close to faking an Australian accent. Obviously I'm a failure and there's no point to living there anymore. Guess I'll just stay home.
5. Ryan Gosling? Is he that guy from The Notebook? Yeah, he's not really my type.
6. There are no Chili's fried cheese sticks in Australia. LAME. I'm staying in the good old U.S. of A. where they know how to do appetizers.
7. It's DECAFFEINATED.**
8. I'm totally planning to bring a bomb on the plane back to Australia, so they should probably just put me on the no-fly list now and save everybody a lot of trouble. Yeah I said it. BOMB. On a PLANE. Bomb ba bomb bomb bomb! Seriously. No-fly list. I belong on it.

*You guys, she still totally hates peanut butter. That's why it's still funny. 

**This one is probably only funny to me. I'm ok with that.

Confessions

Today I'm over at The Smartness earning some cred as a guest gangsta. Yeah, that's right.

Click over to read some of the dark confessions that I just couldn't bring myself to share with you here. And while you're there, give some love to Moxie, the original gangsta who's welcomed me to her crib (do gangstas still say crib? Did they ever say crib?).

I'm still not sure why Moxie thinks I'm cool.

Simmer down. Elf acquired.

OK, you can all RELAX. I know, this has been weighing on your mind all weekend: are Alyssa's children being tormented by Gnarles the Zombie Baby Elf?? Well, they weren't. Calm down.

Grandma pulled through and discovered an Elf on our doorstep when she dropped by to bring us some cookies (seriously. She brought us cookies. She would be exactly like a cartoon Grandma, except that her husband baked them. Also they were leftover Halloween sugar cookies, mushed up to disguise the fact that they were meant to be pumpkins. So they were basically orange smoosh cookies).

Our Elf is named Jacob. The Princess tried to play it cool at first, like, eh, maybe he's a real Elf, maybe he's not, but then when she slept and he MOVED?! Totally. Convinced. "Oh, Jacob," she gushed when she discovered him swinging from the kitchen chandelier Saturday morning. "I just knew you were a real Elf! How did you get up there, you crazy Elf?!"

Jacob had brought with him a "make your own snowman ornament" craft kit, so we set about making our own snowman ornaments. We decided this was probably Jacob's way of telling us it was time to take down the Halloween decorations and put up some Christmas cheer, so we did just that.

Daddy heroically risked serious injury or death hanging lights on our very tall new house, climbing a ladder much higher than any he has climbed before. We discovered after he was done that the ladder has a 200 lb. weight limit. tHe O.G. is a little closer to, say, 235. But he lived! It's a Christmas miracle! And the house looks fabulous!

Actually the house looks a little out of place, because we find ourselves living in a very, very nice neighborhood (as in, we're the only renters on the block, yo) and apparently there's an unspoken rule in very, very nice neighborhoods that you decorate with white lights only. tHe O.G. doesn't hang white lights. He just doesn't. That's not how tHe O.G. rolls. So there's our very, very nice (did I mention tall?) house in our very, very nice new neighborhood, enthusiastically draped corner to corner in furiously bright multicolored, blindingly, dazzlingly multicolored LED lights.

And the neighbors' houses in their demure and elegant white-lighted glory look down on us with dismay.

And we're cool with that.

Santa likes color, y'all. Everybody knows this.

Sunday morning we found Jacob the Elf had rather unwisely positioned himself on the playroom floor surrounded by blocks. After the Monster gleefully destroyed all of Jacob's towers and castles, he set his sights on the Elf himself, and I was forced to intervene. Now, if you're familiar with Elf on the Shelf lore, you know that touching the Elf is strictly verboten.

The Princess was torn: surely we should not move the Elf from his chosen resting place. On the other hand, would Jacob prefer a quick move to safety, or being chewed on by her Monster of a baby brother? So we opted for a quick, frantic, hot-potato move to safety, chanting "I'm sorry Jacob, I'm sorry Jacob, I'm sorry Jacob" all the way to the top of the refrigerator. We then informed Jacob that he needed to find higher resting spots from now on. This could be challenging. For Jacob.

This morning we found Jacob perched atop a speaker on the wall, clutching a tube of glitter glue. He'd added some bling to the big "Merry Christmas" sign the Princess had made to hang above the fireplace. Oh, that Jacob.

If I Only had an Elf

If you're new here (yay!), you might want to familiarize yourself with the Elf on the Shelf saga here and here. Or don't! I don't care. I mean honestly it's an incredibly stupid story, so you probably don't want to waste your time. You can just pick up here if you like. Or go read something less stupid.

Some of my readers aren't familiar with Elf on the Shelf. I wasn't either, until very recently, so allow me to introduce him to you.

You should definitely start where I did, with Periwinkle Papillon's video, The Beauty & the Agony of Elf on the Shelf. Go on and watch, it's quick and hilarious; we'll wait.

See, the idea is, the Elf hangs out in your house, disguised as a creepy stalker delightful toy, observing your children. Then as soon as they fall asleep, he comes to life and flies straight to the North Pole to tattle to the big guy! So you'd better be good!

He flies back and spends the rest of the night amusing himself in your home, but when the kids wake up, he turns back into a toy--right in the middle of whatever he was doing! And so the kids leap out of bed with joy and no grumbling and go searching for the Elf.

Here are some photos from Pinterest of Elves in action:

He's a literary Elf.
source

He's a game night Elf.
source

He's an arty Elf.
source

He's a lady's man Elf.
source

He's a mischievous Elf.
source

He's a fishing Elf.
source

Most notably, he's not a Zombie Elf.

Many of you on Twitter have taken up the cause, retweeting and crying out for somebody to send me an Elf and deliver my children from the threat of A Very Gnarly Christmas.

We're expecting delivery of our own Elf any day now. We didn't order one or anything, I just have faith in holiday miracles. And Grandma.

If you don't have a mom like this, I'm truly sorry. But you can order your own Elf on the Shelf through Amazon, and if you use my Amazon Affiliate link I might earn half a penny or so on your purchase!  WIN-WIN!

Desperate, Elfless times

Yesterday I told you how I desperately  need an Elf on the Shelf to keep my kids in line spread holiday magic throughout my house.

These elves are incredibly creepy:

"Hey, girl."

But as you know, I kind of dig creepy. And Christmas. So Christmas creepy is right up my alley.

Knowing this about me, @MotherhoodTruth suggested the possibility of locating a Zombie Elf.

Naturally I thought of Gnarles, who is really wasted packed up in the Halloween box all year when he could be spreading his special brand of cheer year-round.

What do you think?

You better watch out. You better not cry.

The possibilities are endless. He's nothing if not versatile:

Hippity, Hoppity.

Folks, Christmas is drawing ever nearer, and not an Elf in sight. These are desperate times, and I'm not above resorting to desperate measures. Gnarles would be thrilled to come out of the shed and hide in my children's rooms and dreams. Don't think I won't do it.

Somebody send me an Elf, or this might become reality.

Native American Day and why I don't homeschool

Thursday is "Native American Day" in the Princess's kindergarten class.  Parents were asked to volunteer.  Every time parents are asked to volunteer, my daughter expects me to be there.  And every time, I have to explain to her that Mommy has to go to work, and some other parents don't have to go work in an office, because their job is to stay home with their kids, and those are the parents whose job it is to come volunteer at school.  And she's usually ok with that.  But she needs it explained every. Single. Time.  Yes, eventually I will have to request an early lunch or a vacation day and go take part in one of these kindergarten activities.  But in general?  No, I will not be the room mother, the crossing guard, the Girl Scout leader, or the PTA President.

And this Thursday, I will not be helping to facilitate Native American Day, whatever Native American Day might entail.

But.  Because I'm an involved and engaged mother who cares what her child is learning in school, I asked the Princess this morning in the car: "What is a Native American?"

She said, "I don't know. OH! Are they Indians?"

"Well.  Yes, they are American Indians."  (I know scenes from Peter Pan are running through her head.  You know the one.  "Squaw get-um firewood!"  I knew that movie was a mistake, cringed every time I heard that horribly, horribly catchy song.  But I let her watch it anyway, didn't I?  Grrrr.  Disney!)

"What do you know about them?" I ask.

"Um. I forget that one guy's name..."

"Christopher Columbus?" I say, because in addition to being involved and engaged (and culturally sensitive), I am psychic.

"Yeah! Was he a Native American?"

"Um...no.  He was not.  He...met the Native Americans when he came here from Europe.  Across the ocean."

"What IS a Native American then?"

"Well.  Native Americans were the first people to live in America."

"Are WE Native Americans?"

"No."

"Then who is?"

OK.  You'll be relieved to know that at this point, before I could do anymore damage, we arrived at school.  I said, "Well, I guess that's what you'll learn in school this week!" as I kissed her goodbye and sped off towards my grownup job, leaving her in the hands of the kindergarten teacher and her arsenal of workbooks and curriculum and training.

I used to think I wanted to homeschool my children.  You know, violence and bad influences, not to mention the gross failure of the public school system in America.  I had rosy visions of nature walks and family poetry slams and collecting bugs in jars and instilling in my bright-eyed children a genuine, independent love of learning that would guide them through life, allowing them to educate themselves.  I still believe homeschooling is a viable and wonderful option for many, many families, and part of me sincerely wishes I was in a position to do it myself.

Some days more than others.

Then there are moments like this, where I'm faced with what seems like the most simple little history lesson ever.  The first Thanksgiving!  Christopher Columbus!  Pilgrims!  The Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria!  These are all magical phrases in my mind.  Costumes and crafts, buckle shoes and feathered headdresses.  Multicolored corn.  Handprint turkeys!  Obviously I don't remember too many actual facts about this stuff, OK?  And facts are apparently what my five-year-old is interested in.  Go figure.

No, we're not Native Americans.  Who is?  Well, honey, I'm not sure you know any.


No, I know you have Indian friends in your class...Native Americans are not really Indians.  Indians are from India...Christopher Columbus just thought Native Americans were Indians and people have called them that ever since.


How could Christopher Columbus have discovered America if there were already all these people living in it?  Well.  Um...he didn't, really.  He was just the first European...No, we're not European.  We're American.  No, not Native American.  Well, our ancestors were European and they came over here after Christopher Columbus.  Ancestors?  It means...our grandparents' grandparents' grandparents.  People who lived here a long long time ago, and they had kids and they had kids and they had kids and then we were born, and...um...are you still listening?


I realize I'm trying really hard not to let the word "white" into this conversation, and I'm not entirely sure why.  I mean, we are white.  She knows we're white.  We live in California; it's diverse.  So she has plenty of friends who are not white and this is not a revelation to her, that people are different colors.  But somehow in this context it seems so wrong, to delineate "Native American" and "white," "them" and "us."  "No, honey, THEY were already here, but WE weren't here yet, so it wasn't discovered until WE got here. And by WE I don't mean WE, I just mean people who lived a long, long time ago and happened to have roughly the same skin color as us."  What?


Maybe I should go to Native American Day.

Wordless...Monday. Dude, shut up. It's my blog.

From Ashley, my dear friend and personal photographer:

"Why do I get the feeling that your son has some evil plot to take over the world?"

Hmmmmmm.

Muahahahahahahahahaha.

Karma Cupcakes.

If you aren't following me on Twitter (or were, you know, sleeping last night), here's what you missed:

That link leads to my post entitled "Humiliation and volunteerism. Also Girl Scouts don't eat cookies."  You may want to check it out before you continue.  And I'm not just fishing for clicks here, ok?  It's actually relevant.  And entertaining.  We'll wait.

Yes, Girl Scout leader suggested cupcakes.  I was relieved at first until I realized that instead of one big Girl Scout daisy, I now have to make 48 tiny Girl Scout daisies.  Doh.
Why do I always think cupcakes are easier??  They're not.

Buy one get one FREE, you guys.  It was clearly a sign.

The highlight of my night.  Who am I kidding?  The highlight of my week.

Oh yeah.  NaNoWriMo started yesterday.  Without me.

Twitter finally responded to my cries for help.
And no, they do not have fewer calories.  But I plan on telling Nike Mom they do.

Thanks, Mom.

This is important because I was making all the little daisy pieces out of fondant, and without white I couldn't make any colors other than the pre-colored red and blue I had on hand...which leads to some really poor imitations of the Girl Scout daisy.

Just for reference, this is what the Girl Scout daisy is supposed to look like.  Remember this for later:

Another link back to the Humiliation and volunteerism post.
Because seriously, if you haven't read that, none of this makes any sense.
Possibly none of this makes sense even if you have.  I was up really late last night, ok?

AAAARRRRGHHH!!!

And...there goes my plan to make up for the humiliation of putting my daughter's Girl Scout membership on layaway by providing a super awesome cake for Founder's Day.

The good news?  They will never ask me to do this ever again.

Here's a closer shot, just so you can really see the full wreckiness.  Sorry for the terrible photography, I was pretty much over it last night:

OK.  Now my pride requires me to show you these, to erase those cupcakes from your memory and prove I'm legit:

I made this.

I made this.

I made this.

Whew.  I wonder if it would be weird to print these photos out and distribute them at the Girl Scout Founder's Day party?

So. I'm an artist now.

A few days ago I posted a photo my daughter found on the internet (with help from her father) of a vampire pumpkin.  She LOVES this pumpkin.  LOVES IT.  So she printed out the photo and hung it on her bedroom door, where it thoroughly creeped me out every night.  You can read that story here if you're so inclined.

Or you can just look at the original "inspiration" photo below:

By the talented Adrienne Trafford, a woman I have never met but who seems quite lovely.

Without further ado, here is MY version of this fantastic pumpkin.

Errrr.  Maybe I shouldn't have put it side by side with the original.
It looks a lot better if you don't look at Adrienne's masterpiece.

Look, I told you I wasn't a painter, OK?  You can stop laughing now.

Besides, the Princess isn't as discerning in her art appreciation as you all are.  She's thrilled with it, so I call it a success.