Say hello to my little friend...

Everyone knows that I'm a bad-ass. And a mom. That said, I would like you to say hello to my little friend, Nintendo DS. Yes, Nintendo DS is what I like to refer to as "Mommy's Little Helper." Perhaps at this point you are thinking, " Pshaw! Video games rot the brain! Good parenting? I think not!" To which I would respond that you are a fool - a fool I say!, and attempt to persuade you to listen to what Nintendo DS might have to offer your family.

1) Video games may or may not rot the brain - that remains to be seen in the EW household. But I will tell you this: Nintendo DS makes my son do his homework. Mostly because I say this, "If you don't do your homework now, I will take away your Nintendo DS." Works like a charm every time. *Note: Feel free to apply this formula to bedtime, teeth brushing, you name it. Get creative! Nintendo DS will not fail you.
2) Nintendo DS also functions as a magic wand of sorts. When I wave Nintendo DS suggestively at my son before school, he understands this to mean that if he gets in the car ASAP without whining, crying, or refusing to go to school that day, he will be allowed to play a quick round of Mario and Sonic at the Olympic Winter Games en route to school. Voila! Peaceful mornings abound!
3) Nintendo DS allows one to at least entertain the thought of embarking on a family vacation (not for the weak of heart, mind you). Five hour plane ride back East? No problemo. Nintendo DS is the solution to your problems. *Note: Okay, I'm not gonna lie. A situation such as this may require the assistance of yet another of Mommy's Little Helpers, and no I don't mean alcohol (this time). I'm referring to the ever-trusty portable DVD player.

Until recently, Nintendo DS had been used exclusively as a parenting tactic for my son. But to both our surprise and delight, Carl and I realized just weeks before Christmas that Maggs had recently developed an interest in the Nintendo DS as well. Lo and behold, Santa surprised Maggie with her very own pink "in-tendo DS" (as she calls it) on Christmas morning!

Like mother, like daughter.

Which brings me to my favorite reason of all for being a proponent of the Nintendo DS.

4. While these handheld devices may serve as "little friends" that help my day run smoother by functioning as a means of occasional bribery (let's just call it what it is), they make my kids act like friends to each other, which is perhaps the greatest gift of all.

One of the main reasons Carl and I thought that Maggs would enjoy a Nintendo DS of her own is that the kids can sync their machines so that they can play games together, which they think is the bee's knees. And I'll admit, nothing gives me greater pleasure (other than jarred cheese sauce, Tivo, and 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep) than hearing my kids laughing and having fun together. It's just the best sound in the world. So if you haven't already, I highly recommend that you do yourself a favor and hightail it to your nearest Best Buy or Toys R US or wherever, and purchase a Nintendo DS of your own today. Trust me, you won't regret it.

Just another day here at the Cleaver house...

I present you with two scenarios, typical of daily life here in the very Cleaver-esque EW household (would you expect anything less?):

First scenario: The kids have been non-stop bickering all day. This bickering escalates considerably when I demand gently suggest with kisses and hugs and promises of cookies and pony rides that the children clean up their playroom. I mistakenly tell them to do this together. When they initially refuse, I threaten to sell them to a band of gypsies remind them that Ward will give them a talking to if he sees that their playroom is a shit hole in disarray. Eventually they comply because they don't want to lose their videogames hate to disappoint us. (*Note: I suppose June would happily tidy the toy room herself, all while keeping her coif neatly in place and her dress maintaining the appearance of being freshly pressed. Fuck you, June. I am sick to death of bending over 10,000 times a day to clean up legos that, when they're not painfully embedded in the heel of my foot, are so small they're nearly impossible to detect with the naked eye).

But if only it were that easy. Eventually, exasperated and sick of hearing exchanges such as "You're just a poo poo diaper baby." "No YOU'RE the poo poo diaper baby." "Mom! Maggie called me a poo poo diaper baby!" I repress the urge to scream "You're BOTH poo poo diaper babies!" and instead inform them both that they're no longer allowed to speak to each other ANYMORE. For the rest of their lives. To which Wally and the Beav respond with enthusiastic cheers of, "YAY!" while doing a sort of jig around the playroom. I should have seen that one coming.

Second scenario: The weekend. It's bedtime and the kids are having a camp-out style sleep-over in my room. As usual, they have refused to eat dinner, therefore their bedtime snack is restricted to fruit and dry cereal such as Cheerios. Maggie approaches me to ask for popcorn and cookies, a request which needless to say I deny. She informs me that her brother told her to demand that I provide them with popcorn and cookies and that if I refuse, to hit me. She relays this information to me with a look that clearly says that she understands that this is not advisable. At that point it becomes clear to me that Bear is pulling an "Eddie Haskell" by setting his sister up for his own amusement, and I imagine him in my bedroom suppressing snorts and giggles with his ear to my door in an attempt to eavesdrop on our exchange. I mean, who would want to miss out on that shit storm? "Dance, puppet, dance!" I imagine him thinking as Maggie set out on her mission. For him I guess it's a win-win situation. Either she comes back with cookies and popcorn, or he gets to see what happens when his baby sister tries to put the screws to their mother. Good times all around. Of course, Ward and I did give him a talking to.

I'll actually take these Stepford Children because they seem to be eating whatever it is that's on their plates without whining, crying, gagging, or lying prostrate on the floor.

Yeah, "Happy Birthday To Me" ya jerk off.

What he's really saying: "Hey, thanks a lot asshole! Happy fucking birthday to me."

Monday was Bear's first day back at school after winter break. When I was taking his homework out of his backpack last night I found this message from Mickey. At this point I should be honest and tell you that we were completely unaware that it was Mickey's birthday in November so we did not write, call, or send a gift. My apologies Mickey. I will be sure to put your birthday on the calendar for next year.

Is it just me or does this seem passive-aggressive? I had to do a double take to make sure that Mickey wasn't flipping the bird. Carl thinks that I'm crazy as usual and that this message from Mickey is innocent enough. To which I responded that perhaps my perception has been clouded by too much time around our families over the holidays. Just sayin'.

Stop the Insanity!

Remember Susan Powter? The creepy motivational speaker, dietitian and personal trainer who rose to fame in the 90s with her catch phrase “Stop the Insanity!” Maybe you're wondering why the hell I would mention that annoying bitch when you have tried so hard to block her from your collective memories. No I have not decided to single-handedly resurrected Susan Powter from the annals of 90's pop culture. Lately I just haven't been able to get the catch-phrase "Stop the Insanity" out of my head in reference to my current diet and exercise routines (alright, who are we kidding. There is absolutely NO exercise happening here lately. The size of my ass can certainly testify to that).

All good things must come to an end - well that is if you think that ingesting mass quantities of potato chips smothered in that jarred Tostitos Nacho Cheese Dip substance is a good thing. I do. Or did that is, because just the thought of it makes me want to vomit now. Now that probably is a good thing. Man did I get off track in the month of December. I replaced a diet that consisted of mostly vegetables with one that currently consists of virtually NO vegetables (unless we're including potato chips as a vegetable. No? I didn't think so).

Here are some signs that I must Stop the Insanity right this instant:

1. Carl seemed shocked and maybe a wee bit horrified when I told him that I had eaten three jars of that Tostitos processed cheese dip substance over the course of one week. And this is the same person who eats scrapple. Wow. This may be the ultimate wake up call. Oh my God, I just read the jar and it says that 1 serving of this substance is 2 tbsp, and there are 13 servings per jar. A jar lasts me on average two days. So I'm eating around 6 or so servings of cheese substance a day. This is indeed alarming.

2. Just now Carl called me from the store to let me know that the large carton of Haagen-Dazs is unavailable. He seemed to think that this would be an issue for me because he kept repeating that the LARGE carton is unavailable and that they only have the 16 ounce carton in stock are you SURE that this will be okay?! I repeat THE LARGE CARTON IS UNAVAILABLE!!! I'm like, okay dude, I get it. It's fine. I mean, is this the last opportunity that I will have in my lifetime to purchase Haagen-Dazs? Does he actually think that I would want to eat more than 16 oz of vanilla ice cream in one sitting? (Okay you got me there. I actually have done that, but not since I was pregnant). Anyway, my point being that when he called me from the store he seemed kind of panicked and like I might bitch slap him if he didn't come home with the 32 ouncer.* Maybe this is a sign that I need to re-evaluate my relationship with Haagen-Dazs.

3. I noticed a perceptible jiggle to my arse when shopping at the supermarket in sweats yesterday for more cheese substance and potato chips. And Pepsi. One mustn't ever forget the Pepsi. (I was wearing a pair of really nasty Old Navy sweats with Uggs by the way, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the automated doors when entering the grocery store and this is so NOT a good look for me).

4. Carl's muscles feel stiff and sore from starting his new work-out routine. Mine feel stiff and sore from not moving from either the computer or our Lazy Boy recliner where I gorge myself with ice cream, potato chips and cheese substance while watching marathons of Snapped, and the television equivalent to jarred cheese substance, Jersey Shore.

5. My hair and skin feel all greasy because my body is no longer 65% water, it's now 65% jarred cheese substance.

Upon reading this, you will no doubt agree that the time has indeed come to Stop the Insanity. I'll keep you posted about my progress.

*Carl's fears may have been justified: Haagen-Dazs changed their 16 ounce container to 14 ounces? WTF?!

Update: A little while ago when it came up in conversation, Carl asked me if I was still watching Jersey Shore. When I reluctantly confessed that I did watch this week's episode, he said "Oh, honey!" in a way that suggested that he's disappointed in me as a human being. And I can't really say that I blame him.

I'm feelin' a little bloggy.

I am so excited to have received the Lemonade Stand Award from Naomi at one of my favorite blogs Organic Motherhood with Cool Whip! Thank you so much, Naomi - I'm beyond flattered (blushing).

Receiving any sort of blog award kind of blows my mind because until recently I think I had maybe two or three readers. Maybe. And one of them is my mother. I think she's pretty much required by some sort of maternal law to gush shamelessly about how much she just loves my writing. She also thinks that I look good without make-up and that I have a beautiful singing voice (trust me when I say that neither of these things is even remotely true).

When I originally decided to start a blog, my main objective was simply to discipline myself into writing on some sort of semi-regular basis. I've always really enjoyed writing, and after leaving academia to become a mother, I truly missed the creative outlet that writing affords. Moreover, I realized that instead of bombarding friends and family with lengthy emails concerning the mundane details of my day to day life as a wife and mom, I could pour it all into a blog instead, and then they could either choose to read it or not. The funny thing is, I really never expected to become so addicted to this blogging business, or to enjoy the social interaction and friendship that exists within the blogging world as much as I now do. I only wish that I had more time to partake of my favorite hobby. I would like to give a big thank you to everyone that has taken the time to post comments on my blog. I still can't believe anyone that isn't a blood relative or a life-long friend has actually taken the time out of their day to read the (more often than not) random crap that I post. You're all awesome.

Here are the rules for the Lemonade Stand Award as I understand them. After receiving the award, I must:

- Put the Lemonade logo on my blog or within my post.
- Nominate at least 10 blogs with great attitude or gratitude.
- Link to the nominees within my post.
- Let the nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blog.
- Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.

There are so many great blogs out there, it's difficult to choose. Here are a few that I really dig:
Organic Motherhood with Cool Whip (right back at ya) ;)
Girl in the Room
Speaking from the Crib
Mommy Words
Stir Fry Awesomeness
If Evolution Really Works...
Martinis or Diaper-Genies?
A Life More Exciting
Zen and the Art of Motherhood
Theta Mom
Flux Capacitor
Bon Bon Rose
Diary of a Mad Bathroom
Kerry Character's Blog
Mommy Wants Vodka
Let's Have a Cocktail...

One of the nicest surprises that I had in 2009 is how much I have come to enjoy the community of the blogging world (I know I already said that, but I really mean it). You guys rock! Every morning I look forward to sitting down to read your fabulous blogs over a cup of coffee. Happy blogging to everyone in the new year!

An Ice Cube concert review by the whitest girl in the cosmos and how I came to realize I watch too much of VH1's reality programming

Backstory: Over the years, I've been known to attend concerts that stretch the parameters of my music tastes, because not only am I open-minded, I'm just cool like that. For instance, the last concert that I saw (other than the Wiggles or My Little Pony: The World's Largest Tea Party) was The Extreme Metal Tour 2001 - I say "saw" because as I've said before, you sure as hell can't hear it. I've also been to Ozzfest. Twice. And seen Metallica more times than I can remember. That sort of music really isn't my style (to say the least), but I used to take my little brother to a lot of shows when we were younger because he loves it, and I'm the best sister in the world.

But anyway, it had been a while since I'd seen a show, and when Carl asked me if I wanted to go with him and a group of our friends to see Ice Cube, I said what the hell, I'll go. Besides, I like Ice Cube. I'm familiar with his work in Boys in the Hood, and more recently the inimitable Are We There Yet? franchise. Yes, methinks this Ice Cube is a likeable fellow.

The Ice Cube concert is at the House of Blues. When we arrive I immediately take note of my fellow concert-goers. I observe that these are definitely not the sort of individuals that might attend say a Cat Power gig. Wait! I think I see Flavor Flav! Carl tells me that the gentleman I'm referring to is certainly not Flavor Flav and quietly suggests that I refrain from yelling "Do you know what time it is?" (and by that I mean that he told me that he would leave me then and there and pretend not to know me for the rest of the night if I did not stop it right now). The security line, while not long, takes ages to get through, which I consider to be a potentially ominous sign. I decide that there should be drinks. Lots of drinks. And have one of Carl's friends fetch me a rum and coke.

Finally we make it through security and into the venue. While we wait at the bar for more alcohol per my request, there is a brief scuffle and some girl throws a punch at our friend's date. Charming behavior, but that's nothing compared to a Metallica concert I attended where paramedics had to be summoned to assist the guy that o.d.'d in the row in front of us. I guess I'd rather have some bitch throw a punch than have a stranger projectile vomit in my direction. That's just my personal preference though. At that moment I also recall a time at Ozzfest when by the end of a long day of music and revelry, the ubiquitous red-necked males had become quite intoxicated and the environment potentially hostile and I locked myself inside the safe confines of my car until my brother was ready to go while blasting 'NSync in retaliation. Oh, the memories. But I digress...

After we finally get our drinks and find a spot down on the main floor, Ice Cube is nearly ready to take the stage. When the main act does begin and Ice Cube swaggers forth, I notice that he is considerably more portly than the image on the set design behind him. I prefer the portly Ice Cube and make a mental note to consider whether or not I have become a "chubby chaser." Food for thought.

Suddenly I recall something that I learned in grad school from a course on hip hop and film (I was actually the Teacher's Assistant in this class, which makes it even more frightening that I have retained almost NO information.) "Ice Cube is from N.W.A., right?!" I exclaim excitedly to Carl who confirms my observation. I'm all proud now. But I am distracted suddenly when I think I see Garth from VH1's cancelled reality show Megan Wants a Millionaire. I tell Carl that I'm certain that the greasy plumber that serenaded Megan with a plagiarized song called "Sex Mode"* is standing RIGHT BEHIND US!!! Carl does not watch VH1's ground-breaking brain cell eroding reality programming so he is oblivious to my washed up loser celebrity sighting. He ignores me, preferring the vocal stylings of Ice Cube.

As the concert progresses, Ice Cube performs some classic hip hop from the 80s and 90s. I like this about Ice Cube. Some of these songs I am familiar with (and by that I mean that I've heard them once or twice). At one point Ice Cube asks, "You Down with O.P.P.?" (you may want to refer to Wikipedia if you are unfamiliar with this acronym. I was, but I had the urban dictionary that is my husband to translate for me). "Why yes, Ice Cube, I am down with O.P.P., thank you for asking." At other points, Ice Cube gets down right gangsta, but he looks snugly to me and I wonder if he likes cuddles.

Later, Ice Cube performs one of hits from the early 90's "Check Yo Self." He tells me "You better check yo self before you wreck yo self." Methinks this is sound advice Ice Cube. Yes indeed. While I do manage to get my groove on, I fear that I probably look like Bree Vandecamp from Desperate Housewives trying to fit in with the Ice Cube crowd, but roll with it anyway, trying to enjoy whatever contact high I can get from all the weed I smell around me.

In all seriousness though, I would have to say that I really had fun at this concert. It was a cool experience and I'm glad that I went. I might even consider attending another one. But only after Carl agrees to watch me rock out at a Rilo Kiley show - or better yet, maybe I could force him to go with me to see Morrissey (although I'm pretty certain that he'd throw down over that one). Really the options are limitless...

*Note: Carl does NOT consider it erotic when I serenade him with "Sex Mode" , just in case you were wondering. "Grab my stick and switch right into SEX MODE..."

So let's talk about buffets.

As I'm sure it is for many families, dinner is often a source of contention in our household. It would seem that not one of the members of our foursome likes any of the same foods, with various food allergies making the process of choosing something for dinner all the more difficult. Lately my husband and I often find ourselves staring blankly at each other whenever the inevitable topic of "what should we have for dinner" presents itself. I do cook regularly for my children as does my husband, but lately the kids only like two things, and I'm gonna freak the hell out if I have to prepare tacos or plain noodles with meatballs one more f***ing time.

That said, last week Carl had a stroke of genius - we live in Vegas, why not take advantage of something that Vegas is known for the world round? Their fabulous buffets! At a buffet, each of us can choose whatever we want for dinner.(Plus we had a coupon that made dinner practically free, and considering the fact that we're flat broke, that was a nice bonus). Naturally I was resistant at first, I mean buffets are disgusting. How white trash are buffets (very)? But eventually I conceded because I sure as hell didn't want to have to start the painstaking process of reconsidering our dinner options all over again.

After we picked my son up from school, we headed directly to the buffet because we were all starving and it makes sense to try and beat the dinner rush (add that to the list of reasons I'm geriatric: I prefer to beat the dinner rush when I frequent the buffet at 3:30 in the afternoon). You may be wondering at this point "aren't you the same annoying pain in the ass person that is supposedly into "organic, hormone free this and that?" Yes, I am. But I'm also into not wanting to gouge my eyeballs out with a blunt instrument every time the question of dinner comes up. So that brings us back to our most recent visit to the buffet...

Let me just preface this by stating a disclaimer: children sometimes say things (unintentionally) that are not politically correct. I am not advocating or encouraging these statements; my children are 4 and 6 - they don't know what the hell they're saying. If you're offended please remove the stick from your ass and go away.

So after we made one of many rounds at the buffet (come on - you know it's a pig fest! It's a buffet!) Maggie and I took our seats and proceeded to chow down while Carl and Bear rampaged the taco bar. While I ate mashed potatoes, Maggie began feasting on one of her personal favorites: watermelon. And boy she was gettin' into it. With her eyes practically rolling back in her head, "Mmmmm, I love me some watermelon. Watermelon is gooood." Naturally these comments were said in the not-so-subtle tones of a four year old (meaning she's practically shouting), which aside from the bad manners wouldn't have caused such embarrassment if we weren't sitting next to a table of African Americans. Again, I don't think this would matter all that much if I weren't getting looks, and by looks I mean they were turning around to stare at the person that was loudly saying "Oh yeah, I do LOOOVE me some watermelon!" I mean Maggie did seem to be putting on quite the show and I kind of wondered if they thought she was doing it on purpose or if I had put her up to it or what. (Yes by writing this I am acknowledging the existence of a stereotype about African Americans liking watermelon. What can I say, I was mortified). I was very embarrassed and at that point attempted to get Maggie to keep her ecstasy over the watermelon to a minimum. And I will admit after that I did forbid her to get fried chicken.

Then there was the point at which my son loudly called my husband fat and offended an old lady, all in one fell swoop.. Whoo hoo! We were on a roll! After dinner Carl was standing up because he was so full (our family really believes in getting our money's worth at the buffet). Bear was all (in the loud kid voice of course), "Dad your belly is FAT! I've never seen a belly that big!" and then proceeded to hit the belly and we all know that doesn't feel so good after a binge like we just had. Carl told Bear to stop that and jokingly said that he might explode if he doesn't stop to which Bear replied, "Yeah! Explode! That'd be cool!" Carl responded, "I don't think so. I'd die." Which at this point I'm thinking "Dumb-ass. Don't say 'die' - I so don't wanna go down that road right now. But Maggie didn't miss a beat with that one.
Maggie: (Loud kid voice) "Mommy where do we go when we die?" (We talk about this A LOT).
Me: (Resigned) "Heaven."
Bear: (As usual) I'm not going to Heaven. That's boooring.
Maggie: "But not for a long time right?"
Me: (Looking around and noticing the elderly woman sitting at the next table, only three feet away. Shit. She's looking at US now). Um, yup. More desserts anyone? (Mind you, we were all about to throw up at this point).
Bear: (Again, in the loud kid voice) You mean we'll go to Heaven when we're all old and wrinkly, right?
At this point Carl and I pretty much decided to high tale it out of there (yes with the kids in tow, although at that point we did consider leaving them). Hopefully we're not eighty-sixed from the buffet, because we just got another one of those coupons in the mail. Besides, my son likes the buffet because you don't have to wait for the server to bring you food because waiting (like Heaven) is soooooo boooorrring.