I went into this year's "Girl Scout Cookie Time" with a plan. I would not succumb to the dozens of obligatory orders from current and former students. I limited our inventory by consolidating the order process. The Masters family would only buy one box of cookies from the first Girl Scout to ask. No other boxes would be purchased....anywhere....anytime....under any conditions. This was the plan.
This is how the plan has failed:
#1 The first Girl Scout to ask was actually the scout's mother (whom I know well). She lured me to a Mexican restaurant and bought rounds of margaritas before the order form appeared. Ordering under the influence= four boxes of Samoas instead of one.
#2 The cookies arrived Friday. On the day before, against all odds, I posted a substanial weight loss of 0.4 ounces in our Faculty Fit Club. 0.4 ounces is nothing to scoff at since my dramatic weight loss came after a week's worth of snow days. I privately celebrated my accomplishment with an entire box of Samoas. Technically, I let Abby and Henley have one. Each. They each had one. I considered forcing them to share one cookie but knew it was wrong. I'm a good mom.
#3 Chris fished all morning Saturday and left me home alone with boxes 2, 3, & 4. I was a bad mom. I told Henley she could not have Samoas for breakfast because it was not a healthy food choice. So as I made french toast from scratch, I ate box 2. Three things you should realize at this point.....I blame others for my lack of will power....I apparently believe french toast is a healthier breakfast than cookies.....and cookies make me stupid.
#4 I needed a new plan. If I would hurry up and eat the rest of the cookies, they would no longer be a temptation. Apparently, Samoas kill brain cells. Box 3 disappeared in record time when I realized I could eat two at once. I did share some of box 3. While I was gone, Chris allowed Abby to have some. When I returned and surveyed my remaining inventory, Abby quickly pointed out she ate some. "Daddy let me have FOUR!!!" After teaching her a quick lesson on proper portion control, I finished the rest of the box before I was forced to share with anyone else.
#5 Chris has been NO help. He has not and will not eat any of the cookies. He swears he has found a protein rich granola bar that tastes just like Samoas. I've tried them. When I say I've tried them, what I mean is I have tried to hide the Samoas behind the granola bars in the pantry. Box 4 is currently surrounded by a fort of nutrition. Nobody will look for them there. Unfortunately, I'm the one the cookies need to be hidden from.
#6 Those damn cookies are for sale on every street corner. My problem does not simply go away after I polish off box 4. I have to avoid every grocery store in town for the next two weeks. And these girls are trained to recognize cookie addicts. They are dressed in cute little cookie costumes and use such strong language in their advertising. Help Support our Troop. Send Us to Camp. Buy Cookies Or We'll Cry. They even earn a badge for their high pressure sales tactic. Chris will have to do the grocery shopping for the next two weeks which means we will have plenty of high protein granola bars.
What message are we sending to these young girls? Are Girl Scouts really selling these cookies or is this an elaborate plot by some terrorist organization? Do I really need to gain five pounds so some girl I don't know can go to camp to learn about self control and self respect? Nay nay, I say. I never went to Girl Scout Camp and I have plenty of self control....
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
I'll Never Buy Metamucil
I am not old. Old age is relative. I am younger than a large number of people, however I am very aware that each day that number goes down. Each day, more people are added to this world, and they will always be younger than me. With age comes experience. From this experience, I realize I've added a new food group to my diet. This food group contains all the things my younger self said I'd never do...like buy Metamucil.
Evidence that I am old:
Instead of counting beers, I count grams of fiber.
I keep Tums in my purse, glove box, and desk.
I have trouble reading the directions on the back of packages.
I'd rather have a new vaccum, than perfume or jewelry.
I feel wild when I stay out past 10pm.
Buying items in bulk gives me a sense of security.
In my contact list, I have more doctors than friends.
Kroger Pharmacy sends me a Christmas card.
I say, "We didn't have ________ when my kids were little."
All my pants have STRETCH somewhere on the label.
I own more SPANX than lingerie.
I enjoy Southern Living more than Glamour.
Victoria's Secret officially took me off their mailing list.
I complain about loud music.
Elastic pants aren't as ugly as I once thought.
Comfort trumps style.
When I married Chris, I owned a 1987 Dodge Shadow (The Cher-dow). It was on life support after I abused and neglected the poor thing throughout my high school and college years. By the summer of 1997, the ceiling fabric doubled as drapery, the air conditioner worked only on odd days after 6pm, the glove box mysteriously popped open at 55 MPH, and the windshield wipers worked independently when they were not tangled behind the side mirrors. So needless to say, I looked forward to a new(er) car. I was 21 and my standards were understandably low. We bought the first car we test drove. Truth be told, I was too nervous to drive such a nice car, so Chris was the driver. Let me tell you, that 1995 Ford Taurus was one hot car. It was maroon with gray fabric seats detailed with rainbow trimming. It had 4 doors, a trunk that latched, a horn that worked, windows that rolled both up AND down electrically, sunglass holder, a cassette player that successfully ejected tapes, and........a cup holder!!! I .thought I was the bomb diggity. Several weeks later, I was "rolling" in my new, sweet Taurus when a guy in the car next to me caught my attention. He turned down his radio and said, "Nice car, Grandma." At that exact moment, I became the oldest 21 year old on the planet. I also said I would NEVER drive an old lady car again. I ate those words when I drove off the car lot with my first full sized Suburban with my two car seats and a double stroller taking up the oversized cargo space. Then I went back for seconds when I traded that one in for yet another full sized Suburban. I am now the proud owner of a very sporty, Jeep Wrangler 4x4 in Red Rock with the Freedom Top. I like to think it makes me look 10 years younger Well....maybe 5 years younger since it does have those two extra doors, but no car seats or strollers!!!
Last week, Chris and I took the girls sledding on a nearby golf course. We stood at the top of a hill alongside a group of college kids. In an attempt to prove my youth, I grabbed the sled and was the first one to zoom down the hill. As I neared the bottom of the hill, I realized I had no control over the sled as a pine tree threatened to split me in two. I bailed off the sled, arms and legs flailing, and flopped into a snow drift. If I had been younger, I would have laughed and bounced up immediately. Instead, I laid there for a second and did a quick scan for broken limbs. During my quick scan I noticed that the crowd at the top of the hill was oddly quiet. Proof that I am old. If I had not been a mother of two in my mid thirties, my fall would have been hilarious. When I finally made it back to the top of the hill, one of the college kids asked me if I was okay. She had an honest look of concern. To add insult to injury, at that moment, I realized she was one of my former 5th graders. We soon left to embarrass ourselves with people our own age.......and their kids.
I know I am not yet over the hill. I am however approching the crest of the hill. I certainly home when I get to the top of the hill, my decent to the other side will be a little more graceful than the last hill I attempted. If it is painful and ugly, at least do me the favor of laughing.
Evidence that I am old:
Instead of counting beers, I count grams of fiber.
I keep Tums in my purse, glove box, and desk.
I have trouble reading the directions on the back of packages.
I'd rather have a new vaccum, than perfume or jewelry.
I feel wild when I stay out past 10pm.
Buying items in bulk gives me a sense of security.
In my contact list, I have more doctors than friends.
Kroger Pharmacy sends me a Christmas card.
I say, "We didn't have ________ when my kids were little."
All my pants have STRETCH somewhere on the label.
I own more SPANX than lingerie.
I enjoy Southern Living more than Glamour.
Victoria's Secret officially took me off their mailing list.
I complain about loud music.
Elastic pants aren't as ugly as I once thought.
Comfort trumps style.
When I married Chris, I owned a 1987 Dodge Shadow (The Cher-dow). It was on life support after I abused and neglected the poor thing throughout my high school and college years. By the summer of 1997, the ceiling fabric doubled as drapery, the air conditioner worked only on odd days after 6pm, the glove box mysteriously popped open at 55 MPH, and the windshield wipers worked independently when they were not tangled behind the side mirrors. So needless to say, I looked forward to a new(er) car. I was 21 and my standards were understandably low. We bought the first car we test drove. Truth be told, I was too nervous to drive such a nice car, so Chris was the driver. Let me tell you, that 1995 Ford Taurus was one hot car. It was maroon with gray fabric seats detailed with rainbow trimming. It had 4 doors, a trunk that latched, a horn that worked, windows that rolled both up AND down electrically, sunglass holder, a cassette player that successfully ejected tapes, and........a cup holder!!! I .thought I was the bomb diggity. Several weeks later, I was "rolling" in my new, sweet Taurus when a guy in the car next to me caught my attention. He turned down his radio and said, "Nice car, Grandma." At that exact moment, I became the oldest 21 year old on the planet. I also said I would NEVER drive an old lady car again. I ate those words when I drove off the car lot with my first full sized Suburban with my two car seats and a double stroller taking up the oversized cargo space. Then I went back for seconds when I traded that one in for yet another full sized Suburban. I am now the proud owner of a very sporty, Jeep Wrangler 4x4 in Red Rock with the Freedom Top. I like to think it makes me look 10 years younger Well....maybe 5 years younger since it does have those two extra doors, but no car seats or strollers!!!
Last week, Chris and I took the girls sledding on a nearby golf course. We stood at the top of a hill alongside a group of college kids. In an attempt to prove my youth, I grabbed the sled and was the first one to zoom down the hill. As I neared the bottom of the hill, I realized I had no control over the sled as a pine tree threatened to split me in two. I bailed off the sled, arms and legs flailing, and flopped into a snow drift. If I had been younger, I would have laughed and bounced up immediately. Instead, I laid there for a second and did a quick scan for broken limbs. During my quick scan I noticed that the crowd at the top of the hill was oddly quiet. Proof that I am old. If I had not been a mother of two in my mid thirties, my fall would have been hilarious. When I finally made it back to the top of the hill, one of the college kids asked me if I was okay. She had an honest look of concern. To add insult to injury, at that moment, I realized she was one of my former 5th graders. We soon left to embarrass ourselves with people our own age.......and their kids.
I know I am not yet over the hill. I am however approching the crest of the hill. I certainly home when I get to the top of the hill, my decent to the other side will be a little more graceful than the last hill I attempted. If it is painful and ugly, at least do me the favor of laughing.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
I Don't Want Gifts
Is there anything more awkward than opening a slinky pink negligee in front of your friends, your mother's friends, and even your grandmothers' friends? The answer is yes. Open the pink negligee in front of all those wonderful women and have the present be from your future mother-in-law.
I have no problem speaking in public. Dressing up in a fruit costume in front of students and parents is a breeze. Leading a group of strangers in singing "The Arkansas Fight Song" comes quite naturally to me. However, opening a present in front of people is as uncomfortable for me as drinking a Kryptonite smoothie is for Superman.
Since when did opening gifts become a spectator sport? Think about bridal showers, birthday parties, and baby showers. A crowd of people (the fans) watch one person (the star athlete) open gifts. Just like any sporting event, the fans even prefer to eat while watching. The fans wait to see what's in the box. The fans secretly await the awkward moment when a duplicate crystal rose bowl is opened. How will the "athlete" handle this? Will her reactions be critiqued in the post-shower game by the professionals? Don't forget the "star athlete" often has a coach or trainer sitting next to them, calling out the plays.
It is NOT that I don't like the gifts. I just don't like the pressure of having to like the gifts at the exact moment. That still sounds rather ungrateful. Maybe its just the crowd factor. Any bride can understand this. Open a box of yellow bath towels and you are somewhat limited on what you can say. Of course you say "Thank you", but when you are sitting in front of the gift giver, its as though another comment is expected. Since you registered for the yellow bath towels, "They're just what I wanted" seems silly. "They are beautiful", is redundant since you wouldn't exactly register for hideous towels. "I can't wait to use them" forces an unwanted visual.
I'm rarely speechless, but I just couldn't find the right words when I opened that pink negligee. "I can't wait to use it????"
To be honest- I never actually said I don't want gifts. It just isn't the language I speak. Our Sunday School class is discussing The 5 Love Languages. Each couple completed an assessment which revealed how we prefer to be loved. My score showed I prefer "Acts of Service" with "Receiving Gifts" as my least preferred. Chris said the test had to be invalid. At first, I did too. In my mind, it was like I speak a language I can't understand. I can speak "gifting", I just can't understand "gifting"???
I love to give gifts, and I want the gifts I give to be meaningful and heartfelt. For me, watching someone open a gift is just as uncomfortable as opening it myself. That's why I prefer to use either the "Hit and Run" or the "Drive By" approach to giving gifts. I'd rather the recipient "find" the gift than watch them open it. I'd actually prefer to remain anonymous when I give gifts. I once worked with a person that was so good at gifting that it became a game. She was the best and I wanted to be better. Competetive gifting. She spoke my language and we played by the same rules. Gifts mysteriously appeared without cards. The gifts were so unique and thoughtful, a card was unnecessary. You don't need a card that reads "You Are My Friend" when you open a beautifully wrapped box to find a plastic french roll with sesame seeds.
I realize in posting this, I run the risk of never receiving gifts again. According to my Sunday School test, my Love Tank does not depend on gifts alone, so I should be fine. I guess my Love Tank is some kind of eco-friendly, flex fuel, hybrid type. I do hope that the next time you give a gift, you give the recipient some slack when it comes to their reaction. Not everyone is a professional in competetive gifting.
I have no problem speaking in public. Dressing up in a fruit costume in front of students and parents is a breeze. Leading a group of strangers in singing "The Arkansas Fight Song" comes quite naturally to me. However, opening a present in front of people is as uncomfortable for me as drinking a Kryptonite smoothie is for Superman.
Since when did opening gifts become a spectator sport? Think about bridal showers, birthday parties, and baby showers. A crowd of people (the fans) watch one person (the star athlete) open gifts. Just like any sporting event, the fans even prefer to eat while watching. The fans wait to see what's in the box. The fans secretly await the awkward moment when a duplicate crystal rose bowl is opened. How will the "athlete" handle this? Will her reactions be critiqued in the post-shower game by the professionals? Don't forget the "star athlete" often has a coach or trainer sitting next to them, calling out the plays.
It is NOT that I don't like the gifts. I just don't like the pressure of having to like the gifts at the exact moment. That still sounds rather ungrateful. Maybe its just the crowd factor. Any bride can understand this. Open a box of yellow bath towels and you are somewhat limited on what you can say. Of course you say "Thank you", but when you are sitting in front of the gift giver, its as though another comment is expected. Since you registered for the yellow bath towels, "They're just what I wanted" seems silly. "They are beautiful", is redundant since you wouldn't exactly register for hideous towels. "I can't wait to use them" forces an unwanted visual.
I'm rarely speechless, but I just couldn't find the right words when I opened that pink negligee. "I can't wait to use it????"
To be honest- I never actually said I don't want gifts. It just isn't the language I speak. Our Sunday School class is discussing The 5 Love Languages. Each couple completed an assessment which revealed how we prefer to be loved. My score showed I prefer "Acts of Service" with "Receiving Gifts" as my least preferred. Chris said the test had to be invalid. At first, I did too. In my mind, it was like I speak a language I can't understand. I can speak "gifting", I just can't understand "gifting"???
I love to give gifts, and I want the gifts I give to be meaningful and heartfelt. For me, watching someone open a gift is just as uncomfortable as opening it myself. That's why I prefer to use either the "Hit and Run" or the "Drive By" approach to giving gifts. I'd rather the recipient "find" the gift than watch them open it. I'd actually prefer to remain anonymous when I give gifts. I once worked with a person that was so good at gifting that it became a game. She was the best and I wanted to be better. Competetive gifting. She spoke my language and we played by the same rules. Gifts mysteriously appeared without cards. The gifts were so unique and thoughtful, a card was unnecessary. You don't need a card that reads "You Are My Friend" when you open a beautifully wrapped box to find a plastic french roll with sesame seeds.
I realize in posting this, I run the risk of never receiving gifts again. According to my Sunday School test, my Love Tank does not depend on gifts alone, so I should be fine. I guess my Love Tank is some kind of eco-friendly, flex fuel, hybrid type. I do hope that the next time you give a gift, you give the recipient some slack when it comes to their reaction. Not everyone is a professional in competetive gifting.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
"You'll Freeze Your A$$ Off"
Ever wonder if your children are really listening to you? One way to know, for certain, is to sprinkle some profanity into your quality family time.
Quality family time for the Masters= the 8 1/2 minute drive to Target
To be even more specific...During our 8 1/2 minutes of quality family time, the conversation topics usually include accusations of favoritism, reviews of previously denied requests, and general complaints of recent and past decisions. Most of our conversations are either suggestions of how I can improve their quality of life or evaluations of my parental performance. It's as if I am moonlighting as some entry level Customer Service representative.
Tuesday night, Chris (fellow Customer Service rep.) and I found ourselves justifying a trip to Target. Apparently, our seven-year-old and nine-year-old had more pressing matters to attend to. Heaven forbid they miss seeing episode 28 of Wizards of Waverly Place, which they know by heart, for the eleventy-seventh time. As we turned into the parking lot, a whiny voice came from the backseat. "Can we stay in the car?"
Mother of the year replied, "You'll freeze your a$$ off!"
The girls have heard plenty of cuss words cross my lips, but I'm pretty sure this was the first time I fired one directly at them. The first one to respond was Abby...
"Mama, said a$$. Can I say a$$, too? I promise I'll just say a$$ in the Jeep and not say a$$ in front of other people?"
If you know Abby, then you know she tried to get in as many a$$es as she could before I was able to regain control. I must admit, she nailed it. Her slight pause before each "a$$" was masterful, and her production of the /s/ sound would put a smile on the face of any speech teacher. She's a natural.
To be fair, I am not the sole source of explicit language. One of our family's favorite sing along songs is "Toes" by the Zac Brown Band. Chris granted the girls special permission to sing all the words as long as the words "stay in his truck". If you are not familiar with the song, the first line goes like this:
I've got my toes in the water,
a$$ in the sand,
not a worry in the world,
a cold beer in my hand,
life is good today
life is good today
I don't care who you are...hearing a seven-year-old belt out that song is just plain funny. What is even more humorous is the nine-year-old sitting next to her. Henley is the singer in the family. She is also our strict rule follower. She will sing along with us, but she will not say a$$.
Gone are the days when we could safely launch a bad word into the air without little ears hearing. We can't even spell the words, that just makes cussing educational. The girls know cuss words. I adore the fact that our girls think the "s" word means "stupid", the "d" word means "dumb" and the granddaddy of cuss words is "s-u". That's right. I don't want my kids to say shut-up, but we sing together about a$$es and beer.
I should probably not admit this since I am an adult (not to mention a teacher), but I enjoy the occasional use of profanity. It's therapeutic. It's cleansing. In some situations, my feelings cannot be adequately expressed with an "Aw, shucks" or an "Oh, poo". I simply cannot call the driver of the car two centimeters from my back bumper a "poo-head". I cannot describe the neighbor with supersonic hearing as a "witch". Dropping a large McDonald's sweet tea in my lap on the way to school, cannot be properly punctuated with a "son of a gun".
I distinctly remember the first time I heard my own mother pepper the air with profanity. I remember laughing......then running. While she doesn't cuss often, she does cuss consistently, and she keeps it contained to the kitchen. She taught me everything I know about cooking. Her recipe for southern fried okra calls for 1 cup cornmeal, 2 Tablespoons milk, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon black pepper and half a dozen dammits.
I'm sure the days of the "s" word and the "d" word will soon be gone. Soon, I will be a "b", and life will be living "h-e-double hockey sticks".
But....
Life is good today.
To those of you I've offended......I'm surprised it's taken me this long.
To my sweet grandmothers......Chad cusses, too.
To my wonderful boss......I swear I avoid using profanity in my lesson plans.
To my parents......I still look around before I use the word "crap" and I usually whisper it.
To our dog, Baxter......truth is, your mom really is a bitch.
Quality family time for the Masters= the 8 1/2 minute drive to Target
To be even more specific...During our 8 1/2 minutes of quality family time, the conversation topics usually include accusations of favoritism, reviews of previously denied requests, and general complaints of recent and past decisions. Most of our conversations are either suggestions of how I can improve their quality of life or evaluations of my parental performance. It's as if I am moonlighting as some entry level Customer Service representative.
Tuesday night, Chris (fellow Customer Service rep.) and I found ourselves justifying a trip to Target. Apparently, our seven-year-old and nine-year-old had more pressing matters to attend to. Heaven forbid they miss seeing episode 28 of Wizards of Waverly Place, which they know by heart, for the eleventy-seventh time. As we turned into the parking lot, a whiny voice came from the backseat. "Can we stay in the car?"
Mother of the year replied, "You'll freeze your a$$ off!"
The girls have heard plenty of cuss words cross my lips, but I'm pretty sure this was the first time I fired one directly at them. The first one to respond was Abby...
"Mama, said a$$. Can I say a$$, too? I promise I'll just say a$$ in the Jeep and not say a$$ in front of other people?"
If you know Abby, then you know she tried to get in as many a$$es as she could before I was able to regain control. I must admit, she nailed it. Her slight pause before each "a$$" was masterful, and her production of the /s/ sound would put a smile on the face of any speech teacher. She's a natural.
To be fair, I am not the sole source of explicit language. One of our family's favorite sing along songs is "Toes" by the Zac Brown Band. Chris granted the girls special permission to sing all the words as long as the words "stay in his truck". If you are not familiar with the song, the first line goes like this:
I've got my toes in the water,
a$$ in the sand,
not a worry in the world,
a cold beer in my hand,
life is good today
life is good today
I don't care who you are...hearing a seven-year-old belt out that song is just plain funny. What is even more humorous is the nine-year-old sitting next to her. Henley is the singer in the family. She is also our strict rule follower. She will sing along with us, but she will not say a$$.
Gone are the days when we could safely launch a bad word into the air without little ears hearing. We can't even spell the words, that just makes cussing educational. The girls know cuss words. I adore the fact that our girls think the "s" word means "stupid", the "d" word means "dumb" and the granddaddy of cuss words is "s-u". That's right. I don't want my kids to say shut-up, but we sing together about a$$es and beer.
I should probably not admit this since I am an adult (not to mention a teacher), but I enjoy the occasional use of profanity. It's therapeutic. It's cleansing. In some situations, my feelings cannot be adequately expressed with an "Aw, shucks" or an "Oh, poo". I simply cannot call the driver of the car two centimeters from my back bumper a "poo-head". I cannot describe the neighbor with supersonic hearing as a "witch". Dropping a large McDonald's sweet tea in my lap on the way to school, cannot be properly punctuated with a "son of a gun".
I distinctly remember the first time I heard my own mother pepper the air with profanity. I remember laughing......then running. While she doesn't cuss often, she does cuss consistently, and she keeps it contained to the kitchen. She taught me everything I know about cooking. Her recipe for southern fried okra calls for 1 cup cornmeal, 2 Tablespoons milk, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon black pepper and half a dozen dammits.
I'm sure the days of the "s" word and the "d" word will soon be gone. Soon, I will be a "b", and life will be living "h-e-double hockey sticks".
But....
Life is good today.
To those of you I've offended......I'm surprised it's taken me this long.
To my sweet grandmothers......Chad cusses, too.
To my wonderful boss......I swear I avoid using profanity in my lesson plans.
To my parents......I still look around before I use the word "crap" and I usually whisper it.
To our dog, Baxter......truth is, your mom really is a bitch.
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