Photo by jpeepz on flickr

Saturday was my hubby’s birthday and to celebrate we took the big kids to see The Muppets. Bobby and I were really excited about it because we looove the Muppets. We have some of the episodes on DVD and the kids have seen a few, but it had been awhile since we’d watched any.  They were a little nervous about it, Joshua because he’s always a little nervous about ev.er.y.thing. and Sophie because she was being a total booger and had just decided she was going to be difficult that day (Happy Birthday, Daddy!).

But, by the time we got into the theatre and began plying them with candy, everyone was in a pretty good mood.  Until the opening little ads for whatever-the-hell company that invented surround sound and digital picture and all that started – you know – the ones where they play theater-filling musical, vibratory tones as LOUDLY as possible so that all your seats shake and your eardrums beg for mercy?  Yeah, we were doing great until those.  My kids didn’t enjoy thinking that there was an earthquake happening in the theater.

And then.

The previews.

Preview after preview after preview after preview.

I remember when the previews were the best part of the movie.  Well, those days are gone.  Because back then, there were three previews max, and now, there are 487 and they are all so loud you want to crawl under your seats.  Both of my kids had their hands covering their ears during many of the previews.  It was ridiculous.  And then, there are of course the commercials that run before the previews, the friendly message about turning off your cell phone, and the short cartoon that precedes the main event.  By the time we got to the Toy Story cartoon, which was admittedly cute, I was so pissed, and so tired of the kids fussing about the previews and asking if NOW the movie was going to come on, I wanted to break Buzz Lightyear’s neck just to get the story overwith.

When the movie finally started, Bobby held up his cell phone so I could see the time.  It was 1:19.  The movie start time was supposed to have been 12:55.

Twenty-four minutes of previews.  Twenty-four minutes of a fidgety five-year-old’s attention span GONE.  Twenty-four minutes of stress for the two parents who were just trying to show their children a good time.  Twenty-four minutes of torture that we paid for.

UGH.  I am pretty unhappy.  The MPAA should be ASHAMED of themselves.

Thank God the movie was great, or I probably would have gone all MacGyver, made something spark-y out of the contents of my purse, and torched the place on our way out!

PREVIEW MY RAGE, people!!

Like pretty much everywhere on the face of the earth, it’s been hideously hot in Ohio for the last week. So, in an effort to beat the heat, we went to our local water park over the weekend. This was smart for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which being A) the temperature is always 20 degrees hotter inside the gates of an amusement park than outside; B) the concrete had soaked up every bit of the heat and was like walking on fire; and C) everyone else in southwestern Ohio had the same bright idea.

Not that I’m bitter.

But the best part is that it was slightly overcast while we were there and, in an effort to not leave as the whitest person in attendance, I decided to forgo sunscreen.

BAD MOVE.

I am so burnt. Those are not my actual legs pictured above (mine are just as red but slightly less hairy) but take that image and apply it to my entire body and that should give you a good idea of what I’ve got going on.

And it’s making me mad. Seeing as how my skin tone is akin to copier paper, I have had a number of bad burns in my life. There was the time I thought putting on suntan oil at the beach was a good idea, and the time I spent a few days on the coast of Spain, not accounting for the fact that I was laying my beach towel directly on the equator. Burning is nothing new to me – but getting mad about it is. I think I am getting grumpy in my old age or something, because this time around any benefit I might eventually get from this scenario (as in possibly no longer being florescent) is vastly outweighed by the fact that I am extremely uncomfortable. And apparently at the ripe old age of 32, I’ve decided that comfort trumps all.

If you need me, I’ll be out shopping for zinc oxide and elastic waist pants.

Ok, it’s not fair to say I just discovered them – I tried a few when they were first offered (oh, about 3 years ago) but haven’t been back since. A couple weeks ago, though, I gave them another try, and I absolutely love them. I’ve done sports cardio, circuit training, pilates, cardio toning and tai chi (not going back to that one, but the others are great).

So anyway, the problem is that Wednesday’s cardio toning class just about killed me. I didn’t even know it at the time – it didn’t seem TOO bad, and I felt good after it. The class contained about 30 minutes of upper body free weight exercises. And now? I don’t think I’ll ever have use of my arms again.

I have seriously never been so sore in my life. My biceps are KILLING ME. It hurts to lift anything at all. I can barely even straighten them, they hurt so bad. I feel like a complete wimp, but apparently I overdid it and now I’m paying the price.

Ugh.

Oh, and in case you were wondering – since I wrote about doing the Couch to 5k program again… I haven’t run a step.

I am the awesome.

Oh hi. Remember me? Probably not, but I’m the driver of one of the many cars you zoomed by in the last week or so. I imagine you didn’t see me, though, because you were in such a hurry. In fact, from the way you were driving, I must assume that you were either bleeding, in labor, or practicing for a local drag race.

I’m sure wherever you’re going is super duper important – you don’t want to be late for work, or maybe you don’t want to miss the first three minutes of The Bachelor.

But here’s the thing.

We live in rural Ohio. In case you haven’t noticed, the roads we travel down every day look pretty much like this.

And it is spring. Otherwise known as the time farmers plant shit. So it stands to reason that every once in a while we’re going to be caught behind one of these.

See that orange triangle on the back? Unless I’m remembering the study guide from my driver’s ed class incorrectly, that indicates a slow moving vehicle.

In other words, it means “Calm your ass down.”

Now, I’m no more of a fan of driving 30 miles per hour than you are. But I am, however, a fan of being alive. And I’m a fan of my kids being alive and even you being alive. I would prefer we all remain that way. So please, please stop passing me, the nice farmers, and the other drivers who have some sense when it’s not safe to do so. By “not safe,” I mean when there’s a double yellow, a curvy road, an upcoming hill… that kind of thing.

And for the love of all that is holy, please stop passing 14 cars and the offending farm equipment all at once.

Thank you.

XOXO,
Emily

And I want him to go BACK TO SCHOOL.

Because at 8:30 a.m. he’s wandering around the house with his “I’m bored” look (he doesn’t DARE say those words to me out loud), NOT playing with any of his THOUSANDS of toys, OR his sister, who by the way, would LOVE to play with him.

We need to get to the library today and check out every book you suggested yesterday!

Because right now, I am about to call my mom and figure out how she refrained from locking my brother and I in our rooms every school holiday. (Notice, Charles, I am leaving you out of this equation. Pretty sure you were not a problem.)

Oh wait, I do know. SHE GOT A JOB.  And sent us elsewhere.

Brilliant!

1) Very very slowly inch your way to the edge of the driveway so you can see on to the sidewalk

2) Very very slowly inch out a bit more so you can see on to the street

3) Wait forever until traffic is clear so you can go

I’ve lived here nine years and never had an incident. Why?  Because I am very, very CAREFUL.

Ok, so yesterday as I was in the *middle* of step 1, with my back tires barely even out to the sidewalk, I hear a scream. So I slam on the brakes, and see a lady whiz behind me on a bike. ON THE SIDEWALK.

I roll down my window.

Me: Are you ok?

Lady on Bike: YOU ALMOST HIT ME!

Me: Uh, I’m sorry, I was backing out very slowly. I can’t see until I get to a certain point.

Lady on Bike: YOU GOTTA LOOK! It would have been YOUR FAULT.

I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere, so I rolled up my window, put the car back in reverse, and continued backing out of the driveway.  And there was NO TRAFFIC so I got out of the driveway right away. Which means she could have been and should have been riding on the road LIKE THE LAW SAYS.

Here’s how the conversation SHOULD have gone:

Me: Are you ok?

Lady on Bike: YOU ALMOST HIT ME!

Me: I think you mean that YOU almost hit ME.  But whatever,  I was backing out very slowly. I can’t see until I get to a certain point.

Lady on Bike: YOU GOTTA LOOK! It would have been YOUR FAULT.

Me: Really? Well, maybe if you were a pedestrian, but last time I checked it’s illegal to ride your bike on a sidewalk, so…and also, as I mentioned, I can’t SEE until I back out further than I already was. So I couldn’t SEE you. But you could SEE ME.  And also?  If you’re going to be STUPID and ride your bike REALLY FAST down a SIDEWALK, maybe you should wear a helmet. JUST AN IDEA.

And also, I’ve lived here 9 years and never even had ONE near-miss with a pedestrian or illegal bike rider. How many have you had?

GAH!!!!!!!!!!

Anyhoo, bike rider lady thoroughly irritated me and I couldn’t shake her yelling at me all day.  I know she was scared, but really, if you’re going to be stupid, prepare for a few bumps and bruises along the way.

And don’t YELL AT ME!

Friday afternoon I took my kids to the play place at a local mall. They had a great time, running off some energy and playing with other kids. But about 30 minutes into our visit, I noticed a little boy playing there, who looked to be about four years old, was wearing a t-shirt that said, in large letters, “No, YOU F***ing Calm Down!” Except it said the actual word, with no lovely asterisks, but with a real u-c-k.

Seriously.

I am guessing that by dressing their child this way, his parents, (who looked like BonQuiQui Barbie and Tupac Ken) were hoping to get a reaction of some sort out of someone. Fortunately, I am not dumb enough to confront two tough-looking strangers at the mall play place, so I kept my reaction silent.

Until now. An open letter.

Dear Parents of the Boy with the “F” Word T-shirt at the Mall Play Place,

What is WRONG with you? Perhaps it is a point of pride with you that your four-year-old’s lexicon (look it up) includes the “F” word, and that his clothing gave the proverbial middle finger to everyone who laid eyes on him. I don’t know. But it made me want to vomit. And I am so, so thankful that my six-year-old, who can read (bigger words than that even, try not to feel intimidated) didn’t see L’il Expletive (again, look it up) rockin’ the F-bomb shirt. Because, really, “Mommy, what does f***ing mean?” is not what I want to hear out of MY child’s mouth.

You made me really mad by bringing your son to the mall with that shirt on. But I got over being mad, and was just thankful that my son was oblivious. Then after FLEEING the play place (thanks for that), I just felt really, really sad. Sad for your son, because I am guessing if that’s what you clothe him with, that you’ve instilled an “f-you” attitude in him as well. Perhaps he thinks already, at his young age, that the world owes him something (everything?). I gotta tell you, this isn’t going to serve him well. Not in kindergarten, not in school, work, family relationships, friendships – not anywhere. You’re setting your son up for failure. And he deserves more than that. He’s a child. Don’t give him the adult responsibilities that come with wearing that word on his chest.

And also? Pick another play place.

And also? Don’t cut me.

Love,

Jenny

C’mon, Danica! You’ve shattered barriers for women by becoming the first successful female IRL driver, why are you taking such a giant step back in participating in ads that are demeaning to your gender? Do you REALLY need the money that badly? Because personally, I don’t think it’s worth it, and judging from all the tweets I saw about you and your poor-taste ads last night on Twitter, I’m not in the minority. (Do a Twitter search for Danica Patrick and you’ll see what I mean.)

The whole thing left me feeling pretty yucky – how about you? Am I overreacting or has Danica shelved her self-respect?

********
Ok this is Emily jumping in here. Jenny unwittingly handed me my soapbox this morning, so I’m going to jump on it.

Danica Patrick has had a successful racing career, and she has broken barriers. There were, however, women who went before her. Janet Guthrie drove in the Indy 500 five years before Danica was even born. Lyn St. James won “Rookie of the Year” at Indy in 1992. Sarah Fisher drove along side Danica from 2000-2004.

She wasn’t the first… she was (and is) the most marketable.

It’s ok for a female to be a strong contender in a male dominated sport, if – and this is a big if – said female is hot.

Hot and heterosexual. Years ago, I was just as hot under the hood as Jenny is today when I saw a life-sized cardboard cut out of Danica advertising pepsi products. She was in her racing gear, she wasn’t wearing anything provocative… it was her wedding ring that made my blood boil. The folks at Pepsi had worked really hard to make Danica’s ring blatantly obvious – somehow they made the silver dollar-sized cardboard diamond shimmer. They might has well have tattooed “Don’t worry, I am not a lesbian!” on her forehead. In addition to her hotness, this fact is also key in her marketability.

But, let me play devil’s advocate for a moment, too. As quick as we are to find distaste for Danica using her sexuality to sell domain names (I haven’t quite figured out that connection yet), did we have that strong a reaction when Michael Jordan walked around in his Hanes? I doubt it. Why is it less of an issue for a man to be seen on TV in his skivvies?

What about when the ooglers were women taking a Diet Coke break?

And what if Danica did the commercial just to make money? Have you seen the advertisements splashed all over race cars? Their outfits? Their helmets? Obviously car racing is expensive, and sponsorship is big business. Are we offended by the giant Viagra car zooming around the track? (Yes, I am, actually, but it doesn’t seem to be a hot topic on Twitter).

Women have come so far in sports in the 30-some years since Title IX was inacted, but sexism and inequity are still very real. And while I could go on all day, I won’t… but I’ll bring it back to Jenny’s original question:

Are we over-reacting?

______________________
Ok, it’s Jenny again. Now for shameless self-promotion: I am guest posting at the Crocs blog today and I promise I didn’t do anything demeaning to myself or my gender over there! Please go check it out!

“What is that word, mom?”

Cars were coming each direction. I couldn’t turn left. I was stuck with hateful graffiti and an inquisitive four-year-old.

“It’s not a nice word, honey. So I’m not going to tell you what it is.”

“F*g? F*g isn’t a nice word?”

Did I mention my inquisitive four-year-old can already read? Hearing him say that word made me want to vomit.

“No, honey, it’s not a nice word, and not something we should ever say.”

Finally, my chance to turn left came. I turned and then made a quick right into our driveway, half a block and yet worlds away from that stop sign.

“Why did someone write that word on the stop sign?”

“I don’t know, baby, but it wasn’t a nice thing to do. It was a wrong choice. And you may never say that word, okay?”

“Okay. I didn’t write it.”

“I know, honey.”

“Did Daddy do it?”

“No, baby, your daddy would never do something wrong or mean like that.”

With that, I got out of the car, got the kids out, and we headed inside. I went through the motions of a normal afternoon, but inside I was simmering with anger. Why did some idiot have to paint a word like that on our corner? We live in the city – but seriously – that corner is home to a house and a church on one side and a body shop on the other. So why? I don’t know, but I’d like to take that can of spray paint and shove it down their throat, nozzle engaged. No, that isn’t very Christian of me, but hearing the word “f*g” come out of your four-year-old’s mouth will do things to a woman. Even if it’s said in the most innocent of ways, just knowing that the word exists has taken some of that innocence away – my child’s innocence. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the existence of a kind of person that would do such a thing – Did Daddy do it?- he can’t even picture the perpetrator, and for that I am grateful. He doesn’t know anyone mean, or bad, or hateful. But I know it won’t always be that way and it just makes me want to build the child a cocoon, or go live in a holler (like the one from whence I came) or dag-nabbit, maybe just blindfold him whenever we leave the house. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Blindfold Joshua and make sure Sophie never learns how to read!

All right, I’m getting a little crazy here. But seriously, mommies, does that not just make you wince?

We stopped at that corner again yesterday, and the word had been painted over. “Look mommy, the bad word isn’t there anymore!” Joshua yelled triumphantly.

He was happy that it had been set right. He hadn’t forgotten that there was wrong done in that place, but I am hoping this incident fades from his memory soon.

I know it won’t soon fade from mine.

“How much do you want for this teapot?” she innocently asked the man behind the counter.

“What?” he shot back sharply.

“Um…the teapot? How much do you want for it?”

He gave her a hard look, and then said, in the most pompous voice, “A lot of money.” (As in, “you couldn’t afford it so get out of my shop and quit wasting my time”.)

Rightfully offended, Lu said, “Well, how much is ‘a lot of money’?”

“A hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

He then started blowing some steam about the history of the teapot, but seriously, all Luanne could do was think of things to say to him that she is too nice to say.

After we quickly left the shop, she said, “I thought he was going to tell me seven or eight hundred dollars. I mean I assumed the thing was going to be over a hundred dollars! Do I look like I couldn’t give him $125??”

“No, you look totally HAWT and totally loaded,” I said, “he’s just a jerk.”

So, Mr. Antique-loving-Yankee-woman-hating-condescending-jerk, way to NOT sell yourself a teapot. Instead of making $125 yesterday, you lost a few customers with big mouths and a blog. I don’t know if you’re just emotionally attached to the teapot and want to snuggle up with it in your bed at night, or if you just hate people, or what, but I suggest you find a career that is not in retail (although I imagine you only get about five customers a day anyways). Maybe try eBay, where you don’t have to deal with customers face-to-face, or better yet, just build yourself a lean-to on the mountain and hermit up!

We’re gonna go hit the Hallmark next door and blow $125 on Webkinz and Yankee Candles. Smell ya later!