Tag Archives: teenagers

“Y” is for: Y Weren’t U @ Skool – 10 Pre-Written Excuses for Teenaged Tardiness/Absence

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Y

I’m a night owl, except for the nights when I go to bed with the sun.  I’m an early riser, except for the days when I snooze until the McDonald’s menu changes from breakfast to lunch. Basically, I’m saying I’m inconsistent.

And because of that, I don’t get up to see the crumbsnatchers off to school.  Knowing that teenagers will take advantage of opportunities afforded by lazy parents, I think ahead.  At the start of each semester, I prepare notes the crumbsnatchers can choose from if they decide they don’t want to take responsibility to get their drowsy derrieres to school on time.

I realize school is almost out for summer, but here’s a sampling:

1)      Please excuse ____________________ tardiness.  His/Her sheets were so dirty we had to de-flea this morning.  Yes, the sheets.  Not the student, but feel free to check him/her upon arrival.

2)      Please excuse ____________________ tardiness.  He/She was dreaming about unicorns pooping rainbows and butterflies.  I read a lot of Dr. Seuss to him/her before bedtime.

3)      Please excuse ____________________ tardiness.  He/She ate an entire box of Brown Sugar and Cinnamon Pop Tarts before bed and sat up all night tweeting things like “#Poptarts #sugar #high”

4)      Please excuse ____________________ tardiness.  He/She was feeling ill and wanted to stay home but I don’t want their germs so I dragged him/her from under the covers, loaded him/her up with cold meds and sent them on their way.  Three hours ago.

5)      Please excuse ____________________ tardiness.  He/She claimed it was Saturday but I never flipped my calendar and I still say it’s Friday.  If it actually is Saturday, then please disregard the necessity for a tardy excuse and heap praise on him/her for Monday’s early arrival.

My method also works to hold absences to a bare minimum.

1)      Please excuse ____________________ absence yesterday.  He/She had explosive diarrhea that ran us completely out of the house.  Have you ever smelled a town with a paper mill and a skunk preserve?  Kind of like that, only worse.

2)      Please excuse ____________________ absence yesterday.  After a thorough interrogation and lie detector test by local FBI, he/she was cleared of all suspicion of being a Russian spy.

3)      Please excuse ____________________ absence yesterday.  He/She ate my last Klondike bar and was hiding in his/her closet all day.

4)      Please excuse ____________________ absence yesterday.  He/She had a cereal hangover after eating an entire box of Frosted Flakes doused with chocolate milk.

5)      Please excuse ____________________ absence yesterday.  He/She died from embarrassment about something stupid that happened the previous school day, then had an out-of-body experience where he/she saw all the people that wanted to follow them on Instagram!  It brought him/her back to life.  It’s a miracle!

Which one is your favorite excuse, and what pre-written excuse would you write?  I need to stockpile for the “Senioritis” attacks we expect from Wolfy and Sweet Pea when they return to school in August.

                                                                                                                                                         

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If I’d Drowned The Crumbsnatchers at Birth, I’d Be Out of Prison By Now!

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The teen years are traumatic.  There’s the crying, the mood swings, the feelings of insecurity, the desire to permanently check out of Lifebook.

And that’s when I’m having a good day.

The stress is enough to make even Freud go mad.  Take this  for example:  Sweet Pea’s a teenaged girl.

And by that I mean she’s crazy.

She asked me last week to bring Boyfriend2.0 to her softball game.  Then she sent a text ten minutes after I should have left telling me what time I should leave.  Then she sent another text telling me to come early.  Half-way en route to Boyfriend2.0’s house, she sent another text.

“Don’t come.” 

I called Boyfriend2.0, gave him the scoop, did a U-turn and headed to the house.  Once home, I poured a glass of wine, left it on the counter for Chief Money Maker, grabbed the rest of the bottle and settled down in the recliner just as my phone went off again.

“NVM.  Come.”

I resisted the urge to reply, “Can you chill Sybil?” only because I knew she’d respond with a confused Emoji.

Dazed and Confused

Not an Emoji but sill Dazed and Confused (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Instead I retreated to my favorite hiding spot.  The washing machine.  Trust me, they never look there.

Split Sweet Pea personality aside, we’ve also got another newly-licensed teenaged driver in the house.  And by that I mean our insurance rates have just surpassed the national deficit.

It’s a good thing we live on a corner lot because the streets around our abode look like Harry’s Honda Hacienda, only with less reliable vehicles.

1951 Buick

1951 Buick (Photo credit: Hugo90)

The upside is that with two teen crumbsnatchers out and about on weekend nights, I don’t have to fabricate ways to push Sweet Pea’s curfew up so I can go to bed at 8:30 pm.  Now I feign a headache—instead of admitting my right knee feels like a grenade sporadically exploding because I know CMM will make me go back to Dr. Frankenstein—and leave the watch to him.

Don’t mistake my words for complaining—despite the truth that I am complaining.  Having teenaged crumbsnatchers isn’t all that bad.  As parents of these communication-challenged Cretans, we get fun experiences like debating their anemic critical thinking processes.

“Wolfy, can you run to the grocery store and pick up some milk?”

“Sure, if you give me gas money.”

“You want ME to give YOU gas money to compensate YOU for driving to the store to get milk, which I don’t even drink, in MY VEHICLE?”

“Uhhhhhh, yeah.”

Thank goodness The Eldest has matured to the point that we can hold productive intelligent conversations.  Just the other night he offered great feedback on the cover for my short story, “The Butterfly Wish.”  I felt proud, optimistic, and hopeful.

Right up until he said, “Oh, and you should consider a pen name.  Who names an adult Cheri?”

“Well, I wasn’t an adult when my mother named me!”

“Think about it, Mom.  Would you want to read a book written by Strawberry Johnson?”

“That’s not my name!”

“Ok, so would you want to read a book written by Fruity Thacker?”

“That’s still not my name…but I get it!”

The Crumbsnatchers might not be the brightest baubles on Pinterest, but sometimes…they do make good points.

© 2013 CThacker

A Post Valentine’s Day Analysis Results in 5 Thou Shalt Not’s and 5 Thou Shalt’s

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Dear Chief Money Maker,

Since I plan to spend the rest of my life with you in spite of yesterday, and although I appreciate your valiant efforts, I’m offering you some advice in regards to Valentine’s Day.  Please feel free to apply in years to come only if you desire to remain among those we fondly call “The Living.”

Let’s—simply for organizational purposes—put these in the form of Commandments.

5 Valentine’s Day Shalt Not’s

Thou Shalt Not greet your bride, early in the morning, wearing a sparkly red Speedo while shouting “Happy VD Day, Honey!”

Thou Shalt Not claim the full glass of wine as yours, when your bride says it’s hers.

Thou Shalt Not refuse your bride’s offer of hot gummy lips –the candy you weirdo’s—by saying your recently pulled tooth makes it difficult to chew.

Thou Shalt Not tell the waiter your wine choice was inspired by your bride while circling the air around your ear with your pointer finger no matter how funny you think it is.

Smoking Loon Wine

Smoking Loon Wine

Thou Shalt Not argue with your bride when she says the first twenty-seven holes of putt-putt were warm-up and declares herself Champion after winning the back nine.

5 Valentine’s Day Shalt’s

Thou Shalt feel free to punch the waiter for calling your bride “fat” by asking, “And now for you, sir?” after she ordered three sushi rolls for the both of you.

Thou Shalt remember to bring earplugs for your bride in the event a dear old great-great-grandmother, perhaps even one of the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, decides to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”….very poorly.

Thou Shalt support me in the future when I tell the Crumbsnatchers that I am not talking dirty after yelling, “Stop exacerbating my ill mood!” instead of calling me a “Potty Mouth” in front of them.

Thou Shalt make mental note that, “We’re tight honey, don’t worry about getting me a gift,” really means don’t worry about getting me one that costs over $100.00.

Thou Shalt let your bride win the first twenty-seven holes of putt-putt so you don’t have to argue with her when she tells you they were warm-up while declaring herself Champion after winning the back nine.

With all my love, kisses, and wishes for many more Valentine’s Day’s to come,

@}>—>–Mama Bread Baker

 X O X O X O X O X O

We’re Not Racists. Our Cat is Black

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I joke.  I kid.  I make my pennies-a-day salary writing humor.  But there is one topic I won’t joke about because I just can’t find anything funny about it.

Ok.  Maybe I find it funny when comedians poke fun, but they are more skilled than I.  I’m not gonna touch it.  Yet still, I couldn’t help but chuckle a little when Chief tossed out some ridiculous things people could say about their own beliefs:

“We’re not racists.  We’re just really slow runners.”

Maybe it was because we’d recently seen Django Unchained.  I don’t know what led to the topic, but we tossed a few more out for fun:

“We’re not racists.  Our cat is black.”

“We’re not racists.  We just think the SEC is better than everybody.”

Ok.  That’s about as far as we got ‘cause like I said, I don’t find much funny about racism.  And for all my fine “Yankee” readers, if you think prejudice is extinct in 2013’s New South, you’ve got some mighty fine rose-colored glasses to shield you from the scorching truth.

There has never been another subject that stirs me up as a writer more than this one does.  I don’t know why.  Oh, hell, yes I do.  I lived in Mississippi, the fire of racism that boils the cauldron of hatred and imagined superiority.  The Eldest and Sweet Pea lived in the coals of this ignorance when they lived with their father.

Consider this:

*****************************************************

It’s a humid July Saturday night in Panola County, Mississippi.  Three teenagers party all night.

It’s Sunday morning, 6:30 a.m. Hot, because it always is in July in the south.  Johnny Lee Butts set out for his 4-mile morning walk.

Later, his body was found lying in the road 172 feet from where, according to statements, Matthew Whitten “Whit” Darby ran over him with his white Monte Carlo at an estimated speed of 55 mph to 70 mph.

Johnny Lee Butts was African-American.  The driver and two passengers were Caucasian.

Source WPTV.CM – News Channel 5

*****************************************************

I spilled eleven years of my life in the county where this heinous murder happened.  Officer D.A.R. is a police officer in Batesville, ONE of the two county seats.  Fitting, for an area where as recently as 2008, when The Eldest attended high school there, they still held separate proms disguised as “private parties”  where the attendees were rather bland.  I’ve met John Champion, the District Attorney.  I’ve driven past David M. Bryan Sheriff’s Complex more times than I have fingers, toes, and extra fat on my hips.  I served a year on Panola County’s Grand Jury, voting for indictments of Panola County’s alleged criminals.

I could make your toes curl with recitations of the experiences of racism I’ve witnessed first-hand in that Mississippi county.  But I won’t.  CNN already did that for me.  I could give you my thoughts on whether or not this senseless murder was a hate crime.  But I won’t do that either.

Because my Mama taught me, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

Subscribe to Crumbsnatcher Tales by entering your email in the box on the right, comment on this blog posting, like it on Facebook, or Follow @MamaBreadBaker on Twitter and you will be qualified for a chance to have your blog showcased Sunday in Mama Bread Baker’s “The Spotlight’s on You!”

© 2012 CThacker

A Bean Counter is Never the Life of the Party – Unless They’ve Turned Humor Writer

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I spent 20 years in the accounting field.  I was never expected to be the life of the party.  A bean counter never is.  If I occasionally zipped out a zinger that made people laugh, it was just a bonus.

English: Picture of Azuki Beans. The ones show...

Day in…day out…I counted these.  I was so boring. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But now that I’m a writer, and more specifically a humor columnist, I carry a special new responsibility.  I’m expected to be the life of the party; even if that expectation is only in my mind.  I just can’t seem to help myself.

We had dinner with another couple last night and my newfound responsibility got me in trouble.  The wife is a former co-worker of mine.  She caught me up on the office gossip that I could not have cared less about.

Which brings to mind the question, why do people say “I could care less”?  If you could care less, then wouldn’t that mean you have some measure of caring when you are trying to purvey the message that you really COULDN’T CARE LESS which is what you should have said in the first place?

Who’s on first?  I Don’t Know.  Then who’s on Third?  Who’s on first?

Abbott (right) and Costello, 1942

They just don’t make Sunday afternoon movies like they used to make.  Abbott (right) and Costello, 1942 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So back to dinner and how my newfound responsibility got me in trouble.  I felt an unbelievable pressure all evening to provide snappy one-liners.  I did a good job, too, which is surprising because another friend of mine–yes, I have more than one–was always the one that should have manned the 1-800-OH-NO-SHE-DI’UHNT Hotline.

I did it at Bunco the other night too, but since my Compadres for the evening could have been subscribers of the suburban paper that carries my humor column, I censored myself a little more.  Except for when we were in the garage and my filter completely disintegrated to the point that I called my son an asshole for a laugh.

It went like this:

Soccer Mom1:  Your husband is such a great soccer referee…our girls just love him.
Soccer Mom2:  Absolutely!  He’s much better than that other referee.

Soccer Mom5: (‘Cause Soccer Mom3 & Soccer Mom4 were huddled in the bathroom talking about the other 9 soccer moms and the sub they invited, being me) The one with the red hair?

Soccer Mom2: Yesh (’cause she was tipsy), that’s him!
Me: That’s my son.
Soccer Mom2: OMG! I’m so sorry.
Me: It’s okay. I know he’s an asshole.

<Everyone laughs, which was really the point.>

The Eldest didn’t think it was too funny when I told him about it later that night!  In retrospect, I can understand how he could actually care less about the situation, whereas I really couldn’t care less that he could care less.

Who’s on first?  I Don’t Know.  Then who’s on Third?  Who’s on first?

So back to dinner and how my newfound responsibility got me in trouble.  We laughed and laughed and talked about the dedication of my first published novel that is going to read, “To Denny.  If you hadn’t fired me, I wouldn’t be where I am now.  Thank you.  No, really.  See that picture on the back jacket?  That’s me! Thank you.”

Then Chief Money Maker said, “You got fired?  I thought you quit.”

“Kinda sorta both.  When I asked if I’d be eligible for rehire and he said ‘We’ll see after the two weeks’ I figured those two weeks of doing nothing I’d planned to do at the office could be more fun from the comfort of our sectional sofa so I just didn’t go back.”

Chief shot me a look.  I smiled and said, “But hey, I bet this would make a good blog.  Who wants a boring ole bean counter anyway?”

<Wink>

***Legal Disclaimer***

Any resemblance of Soccer Mom1,Soccer Mom2, Soccer Mom3, Soccer Mom4, and Soccer Mom5 to the actual Soccer Moms I based their representation upon is purely accidental because I’m not that great of a writer.

© 2012 CThacker

Dr. Phil Asks “How’s That Working for Ya?”

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You’ve got to wonder about the kind of life someone lives when they’ve emailed the Dr. Phil Show only twice in their lifetime, and both times a producer has called to request they appear on the program.

Well, I can tell you it is pretty normal—except for those two things I emailed the Dr. Phil show about.

English: Phil McGraw photographed for the cove...

English: Phil McGraw photographed for the cover of Newsweek magazine by Jerry Avenaim (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In my defense, Dr. Phil has some misleading web forms.  He has an “Ask Dr. Phil” section where, by nature of its name, I thought it to be exactly that.  So back in 2005 I emailed Dr. Phil a question about a pressing life situation.  I expected an email response from a psychology intern on the “Ask Dr. Phil” staff that would offer up some sage Texas advice like, “When you walk a mile in someone else’s boots, you’re a mile farther down the road than you were before.”

Instead, I came home from work one afternoon to find the message “Call Dr. Phil” written on our family message board.  That’ll put dinner on hold for just about anyone, I betcha!

I called the number which put me through to an assistant producer.  She explained they had an upcoming show on the topic I’d emailed about.  “Do you think your ex-husband would be willing to come on the show as well?”

Officer D.A.R. barely tolerates existing on the same planet with me.  I knew there was no way he would agree to sit on a stage with me. Besides, he hates doctors.  Especially ones that might tell him what an idiot he can be at times.

So recently, I had another pressing life situation and, because I suffer from the inability to learn from my previous mistakes, I shot another question off on the “Ask Dr. Phil” section of the website.  A couple of days later, while I sat waiting for my minivan to be cleaned, my cellphone screen announced a call from area code 323, Los Angeles, CA.

I immediately thought, “This must be the Dr. Phil Show calling about my Ask Dr. Phil question.”

Ok, not really.

I thought it more likely to be a skip tracer—calling the wrong number, of course—and sent the call to voice mail.

Lo and behold, when I checked my voice mail, it was Julie from the Dr. Phil show with a request that I call her back as soon as possible.  So I did.  This time it seems I’d caught their attention with a situation they’d never heard of before.

“Not even Dr. Phil?” I asked.

“Not even Dr. Phil.  And we’re very interested in having you on the show so he can help your family.  Do you think your husband would be willing to come on the show as well?”

In that moment I realized I was 2 for 2 in “Ask Dr. Phil” situations, neither time resulting in a solution because it required the presence of a man, past or present, from my life.  There was no way Chief Money Maker was going to sit on stage and publicly discuss family matters on television.  Besides, he hates doctors.  Especially one’s he thinks are a discredit to people everywhere bearing the name “Phil.”

“Well why did you write us?” asked Julie.

“Because your website says ‘Ask Dr. Phil’” I exclaimed.

“And how’s that working for ya?” she shot back.

Touché.

Subscribe to Crumbsnatcher Tales by entering your email in the box on the right, or comment on this blog posting, and you will be qualified for a chance to have your blog showcased Sunday in Mama Bread Baker’s “The Spotlight’s on You!”

The Spotlight’s On You! Vol 1:1

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As part of “2013 Means Bigger Better Things”, I promised to showcase a blog posting from one of the previous week’s new subscribers, or someone who left a comment on my blog.  Subscribe to my blog, or stop back by and comment on new blog postings, and one of your blog posts could be featured next week!

Spotlight

The blog I chose for this week was posted by Liz Rosema over at “Seize the Absurd.”  She dropped by and commented on a couple of my blog postings.  The post I chose caught my eye because The Eldest turned 23 this week.  I’ve often wondered why my children don’t throw ME a party on their birthday.  I did all the work!

Please go over and check out this funny post.

Thanks Liz!

“Sorry Mom” Day

Introducing a brand new holiday invented by Seize the Absurd….”Sorry Mom, Day”.
The day after you party yourself into unconsciousness in celebration of your birth, stop and reflect on your state of being. If at this point you have nothing to apologize to your mother for…
you are deceiving yourself.First of all:
Every single one of us enters this world like an absolute cuss.
We begin as incredibly needy things that don’t let anyone else sleep. If your boss kept you up all night working, you would be furious, but babies get away with that kind of behavior all the time. Jerks.
Your first action was to be a total douche.
Sorry Mom, that you had to put up with our weepy infant-selves.In celebration of this special holiday I have some apologies:  Read the rest of this post by clicking here:

Headline: Week Ending 1/11/12 – Mama Bread Baker Suspected of Housing a Lion

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The writing prompt for the day challenged:

Write a supermarket tabloid article.  Make it as unbelievable as possible.

So I wrote this:

Kinda Associated Press:

Sources close to Mama Bread Baker, who wish to remain unnamed for fear of being eaten alive, recently revealed that life for the crumbsnatchers isn’t quite the way it’s portrayed in her nationally syndicated column and blog read by tens of subscribers. 

The source claims that Mama Bread Baker is currently under surveillance by the police department on suspicion of murder.  Regular readers of her column will note that The Nephew disappeared from the blog this summer and has not been heard from since.  

Bartlett Police Chief refused to comment on whether the surveillance claims are true or not.  “It’s the policy of this department not to confirm or deny questions of this nature.  I suggest you talk to your local meat wholesaler, though, and ask about the increased sales in the quantity of ground lamb, goat, and zebra.”

 “They only person I’ve murdered is Haley’s ex-husband, Richard.”  She goes on to claim that she’s speaking of characters in her novel. 

The windows to the garage at 1234 Thacker Lane are covered with black plastic that Mama alleges blocks the sun’s rays from heating the garage.  “With so many kids in our family we have to take  measures to cut expenses.  We did get a new cat, but trust me; there isn’t a lion  in our garage. ”

For a household with so many residents, it was eerily quiet with no other family meandering the residence during our interview.  A steak sat on the counter marinating with an empty bottle of Dale’s fajita sauce by its side.  “That’s for Chief’s dinner,” Mama explained.

Child Services has been notified and Director Elemenopee announced that she plans to conduct a surprise visit to the home on Thacker Lance sometime next week (on Wednesday) sometime between the hours of noon and five (at 3:15 p.m.)  “If there’s a lion in that house, we’ll find it.  And I’m so excited to have the opportunity to get her autograph.  I love her column and blog!”

Bartlett Police Department is requesting that anyone with information on the whereabouts of The Nephew contact them at 787-7677 or STP-RMRS.   The officers assigned would love to go home just in case there is a lion in the garage.

And I thought it was pretty ridiculous.  

And then I read this headline on Yahoo:

Dog shaved to look like lion prompts 911 call

I forgot that people are stupid.  

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© 2012 CThacker

Time Didn’t End, but Time IS Winding Down….

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Time Didn’t End, but Time IS Winding Down….

for those last minute shoppers that thought the world was going to end yesterday, so they waited until today to do their shopping.  I went shopping in the mob of End of the Worlders.  Not because I thought the world was going to end and it didn’t…but because I hadn’t purchased Chief Money Maker one single gift and I was tired of watching him pout beside the Christmas tree!

Merry Christmas to You and Yours and please enjoy this reblog from the Blogging Ghost of Christmas Past.

How To Beat The Holiday Stress

Have you ever felt so much stress that you had two thoughts collide in your mind and then spill out of your mouth causing you to sputter something totally ridiculous?  Last week I told Chief Money Maker, “Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and cook G-Bear after basketball practice.”  He gave me a puzzled look and asked if I would like him to boil Wolfy as a side dish.  Read more…

The Nativity

Light a Candle for Newtown

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candle

Light a candle for Newtown (Photo credit: jamingray)

I recently complained that the crumb snatchers have reached the age where they aren’t fun to buy Christmas for anymore. You know how teenagers are—I need the latest, greatest. Which, for our household, means that’s about all you get. But after Friday, I’m thankful that I still have them to buy for.

I recently complained that the crumb snatchers keep dragging all their friends over to mess up my nice clean floors and eat up all our groceries. Really…ALL of them. But after Friday, I’m thankful that the crumb snatchers still have their friends.

Chief Money Maker just complained when he cosigned a note for a 2006 Honda Accord for Sweet Pea because she batted her eyes and he just couldn’t say no. But after Friday, he’s thankful he had the experience of helping a child fulfill their dream of purchasing their first car.

I just complained that my health insurance is making me go through hoops to get tests that I need. But after Friday, I’m thankful I’m not arguing with a life insurance company.

I always complain that Jumper barks at the elementary school children waiting for the bus in the morning. But after Friday, I patted his head and waved to the children as they walked by.

I almost complained that Chief Money Maker is working when he is supposed to be on vacation…and then I remembered Friday.

In loving memory of:

Names and ages of the Newtown shooting victims:

Charlotte Bacon, 6

Daniel Barden, 7

Rachel Davino, 29

Olivia Engel, 6

Josephine Gay, 7

Ana Marquez-Greene, 6

Dylan Hockley, 6

Dawn Hochsprung, 47

Madeleine Hsu, 6

Catherine Hubbard, 6

Chase Kowalski, 7

Jesse Lewis, 6

James Mattioli, 6

Grace McDonnell, 7

Anne Marie Murphy, 52

Emilie Parker, 6

Jack Pinto, 6

Noah Pozner, 6

Caroline Previdi, 6

Jessica Rekos, 6

Avielle Richman, 6

Lauren Rousseau, 30

Mary Sherlach, 56

Victoria Soto, 27

Benjamin Wheeler, 6

Allison Wyatt, 6

Source: Connecticut State Police

© 2012 CThacker

As the World Ends

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Wikipedia dubbed the date’s descriptive marker as the “2012 Phenomenon” but I can guarantee that those Wiki guys wouldn’t know a phenomenon if it walked up and talked in that Allstate insurance guy’s voice.

“You’re in good hands with Allstate.”

American actor Dennis Haysbert

You totally just read that line in his voice, admit it! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Big deal if the Mayan calendar abruptly ends on December 21, 2012 and the Mayans can’t flip the page to a snow covered Mesoamerican January view?  I’ve got stronger phenomenal proof the world is ending.

None of the crumb snatchers have Christmas lists.

This holiday hitch has me completely dumbfounded.  I have no idea what to do with the time I normally spend scurrying from trunk vendor to trunk vendor seeking economic relief on the latest and greatest requests—otherwise known as “ridiculously priced” items—from the crumb snatchers wish lists.  Could this be the year they’ve all at once realized it’s better to give than to receive?

Sometimes I crack myself up with the questions I ask.

With all the extra time on my hands, I began preparing for the end of the world—just in case.  I spent three weeks deep-cleaning, organizing, and uncluttering our home.  I’m sure that seems a little odd considering most people probably scheduled their holiday cleaning help to come on December 22nd.  No point in paying for something you might not get to use, right?  Right.

I’m a teensy-weensy bit obsessive-compulsive about my cleaning.  I just wouldn’t feel right leaving this world with a dirty house.  Someone pat me on the back for my courteous consideration of the aliens, zombies, or Kardashians that plan to take over the world on December 21st.

Plus, the new medication Doctor Do Very Little, M.D. gave me for my menopause symptoms turned me into a freak cleaning machine.  I stopped taking the pills so I could slip them into the crumb snatchers dinner plates.  Why should I do the work if I can turn them into freak cleaning machines?

It’s a good thing I did too, because The Colonel and Mrs. Colonel—my in-laws—are coming for a visit.  Now I can stop worrying that a dust bunny might hop out from behind the TV and kidnap them for ransom.  Grandma and Uncle Kablong—my mother and brother—are coming for a visit this month too.  Which leads me to the additional proof the world is ending; Grandma said she was looking forward to the visit.

Speaking of phenomenal, the crumb snatchers pulled a fast one on Chief Money Maker on Thanksgiving Day.  As a result, he will dress as Santa to deliver gifts to a family at St. Jude’s this year.  Not to be out-witted by the witless, he managed to coral some elves to assist.

While I was busy laughing at the mess each one had gotten themselves into, they all turned to me and said:

“What’s so funny?  YOU have to make everyone’s costume!”

Elf Costume 001

At least seeing the male crumb snatchers in red tights should be fun! (Photo credit: roger_mommaerts)

Any chance the world might end before December 21st?

© 2012 CThacker

The Incredible Invisible Holiday

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“Back off Fat Man.  I still get my holiday!”

That’s what Chief said to me the other day when he caught me singing Christmas tunes while cleaning the house like my ex in-laws were coming for a critique session.  I began vocalizing the melodious sounds of the holidays because the television was on and just as fast as the ghosts, ghouls and goblins slip back into the dark world after Halloween, Santa appears driving his red hot Mercedes.

Mustang in Tokyo - (Day 20 Holiday 2011)

I’m a Mustang girl myself! (Photo credit: Matthew Kenwrick)

Meanwhile, Mrs. Clause works herself into a stew because he gets all the credit while she does all the list-checking, organizes the toy production schedule, and lets the seam out of those doggone red velvet pants for yet another year!

Anyway, Chief is right—and he will probably print enough copies of this blog to send to his college fraternity buddies and his high school graduating class simply because I admitted it.  For once.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m all about some Merry Christmas making but not at the expense of my annual tryptophan-induced turkey coma, or heaping helping of Charlene’s Sweet Potato casserole.  I have no idea who Charlene is, but I found her recipe online years ago when Al Gore first made the internet available and it’s been my signature Thanksgiving dish ever since.  Even the year I flipped it upside down on the kitchen rug and just as quickly whipped it back over, scooped off the marshmallow crème, applied a new layer, and saved the holiday.  Of course, if anyone in my family reads my column they might pass on the sweet potatoes this year, thereby greatly upsetting Charlene.

You’d think the crumb snatchers would rush Turkey day, anxious to recite their wish-list in between taking bites of pumpkin pie and tossing that weird green jello-mold stuff on their cousins, in hopes that we’ll rush out after dinner to the Black Friday sales that now start on Thursday to scoop up their Christmas goodies.  But not my crumb snatchers.

I’m truly blessed to have a house full of teenagers, and their friends, because what holiday better suits a teen crumb snatcher than one where you empty the panty and make every conceivable dish known to man and Old Aunt Gertrude—who just might possibly be responsible for the green jello-mold stuff but we still aren’t sure?

The youth around our house all put in their notices of work unavailability back in July since they work in retail establishments that are open some portion of this annual turkey and football holiday.  Even Aunt Neicee went to the mat with her employer arguing that it was the one day a year that she’d have to come to work sans pants if they want her.  They gave her Thursday AND Friday off.

Merry Christmas... Have a Nice Life

Aunt Neicee’s got legs, but she’s no Cyndi Lauper! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So retailers might blast the Christmas music at 12:01 am November 1, advertising companies might pimp Santa every 30 seconds for two months, and big box stores might open their doors to the madness a day earlier, but around our house some turkey gets his homage every year.  Meanwhile, I think I’ll shoot Mrs. Clause an email and tell her to try an elastic waist band in the Jolly Old Elf’s pants.

© 2012 CThacker

HEADLINE: Mismatched Socks Bring Teens & Parents Together

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The Weekly Crumb Snatcher Herald 

Monday October 22, 2012

My Life Section

Page 3M

Mismatched Socks Bring Teens and Parents Together

by Cheri Thacker

A Tennessee mother-daughter duo recently discovered the secret to communication between generations.  This mother, fondly called Mama Bread Baker by the hordes of teenagers that gather at her home, accidentally stumbled upon the key to eliminating teenage conflict, but admits she couldn’t have done it without the suggestion of her seventeen-year-old daughter, Sweet Pea.

“I didn’t do anything special,” Sweet Pea modestly stated when I caught up with her and her mother in their outdoor swing.  “I just told her to try it.”

Mama Bread Baker, 44, already helped two older crumb snatchers navigate their path to adulthood.  Her biggest regret is that she’d been unable to unlock this secret earlier.  “I feel so guilty.  They both tried to tell me, but it seemed too simplistic and yet, at the same time, too difficult to try.”

It’s not too late for Wolfy, also 17, and the newest household member of teenagedom, 13-year-old G-Bear.  They were scarfing a plate of warm-from-the-oven brownies when I asked their thoughts on this breakthrough.

Wolfy expressed his wishes for his father, Chief Money Maker.  “I just hope my Dad gets on board.  Life would be better all around.” G-Bear, for once, agreed with his older brother.  Mama Bread Baker wasn’t so optimistic.  “Chief isn’t one to go for all these new-fangled ideas.  He’s pretty traditional.  I think this concept is just too out there for him to accept.”

Chief Money Maker refused to comment, taking his turkey sandwich and 32 ounce Miller Genuine Draft to another room.  Before leaving he said, “It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard and I’m not doing it!”

Psychologist Linden Ere, Ph.D. is hopeful about the discovery.  “It’s possible this phenomenon is unique to this family.  However, I wouldn’t suggest dismissing this method without further clinical studies and trials.  I’d be willing to implement with my parentally-challenged patients, and strife-ridden parent-child relationships.”

The method starts with a simple action, yet opens the floodgates of communication.  “I just didn’t know it could be this simple.  I wasn’t allowed this type of freedom, nor were my parents, or their parents.  What I’m suggesting goes against every fiber of our being all the way back to the 8th century.”

Mama Bread Baker’s experiment began one afternoon when Sweet Pea was folding laundry.  At the bottom of the basket, she randomly placed socks together regardless of color, pattern, brand, or style.  “I couldn’t believe what she was doing.  I know teenagers push the limits…but unmatched socks?”  That’s when Sweet Pea said, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, Mom.”

Mama admits she was right.  “It was hard not to match that first batch of socks.  Even harder to wear the first unmatched pair,” Mama Bread said.  “But once I did, my mind just opened up to all kinds of possibilities.  I was able to relate to our teen crumb snatchers on a totally different level.  It was freeing!”

Mama Bread Baker is working on her book “Mismatched Socks and Unmade Beds-The Lies We’ve Been Told for Ages.”  She stresses, “I draw the line at clean underwear, though.  Teenagers still need boundaries.”

© 2012 CThacker

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/hm-photo/4246465261/

HEADLINE: Humor Blogger Goes Rogue and Gets Serious–Video at Nine

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Attention Blog Readers

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog program for this serious announcement.  

No, the presidential candidates did NOT suddenly stop their mud-slinging. Get real. Yes, yes, Lindsay Lohan DID get in trouble again with the law but that’s nothing new.

Stop guessing. I’m trying to be serious here. Okay, NOW stop laughing. I really AM trying to be serious.

Yes, I am aware that I’m a humor columnist. What’s that you ask? Yes, I understand that all my blogs were tagged in the humor category. That doesn’t mean I can’t be serious sometimes. Don’t pigeon-hole me. No, really…don’t. I don’t like it. Birds have disgusting habits. You know, eating the worms and all.

Yes, I WILL get back to the announcement.

My short story–”The Butterfly Wish”–is published in Mused-BellaOnline Literary review.

 ”The Butterfly Wish” is a modern day story of star-crossed lovers.  Set in East Texas, Angel and John announce they want to marry.  Can their families move beyond the tragic past that’s linked them together for over 170 years?  Or have the roots of prejudice and hatred grown too deep? 

I would be honored if you would take a few moments to read my first published short story. I would be further honored if you would share your thoughts below.

Click here to go directly to “The Butterfly Wish”

I love the perks of publication.  This was the scene on my kitchen counter when I woke up this morning.  Chief even used my special “Cherry” coffee cup.  Now I’m going to sit back and read the Fall edition of Mused. 

Perks of the Published. Waking to find the paper retrieved and coffee ready to brew!

© 2012 CThacker

My Daughter Is An Extortionist!

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“Mom, do you think the $18,000 price for the car is with or without the bud?”

“Bud?  Who’s Bud?”

“Not WHO, Mom, WHAT.  Bud…weed, grass, mary jane—“

“I get it!  I’m just trying to figure out why in the name of your great-grandmother Pearl you are asking me that!”

Sweet Pea was holding open the driver-side door of a cute little 2007 Pontiac G-6 with a “For Sale” sign, parked on the well-manicured lawn of a beautiful two-story home in a small northwestern town in Tennessee.  It’s almost as if Norman Rockwell could have lived there—only he was a Yankee and he died in 1978.

She giggled, pointed to a small compartment to the left of the steering wheel and said, “There’s weed in this car!”  This scene from Pulp Fiction flashed through my mind:

Brett: What?
Jules: What country are you from?
Brett: What? What? Wh – ?
Jules: “What” ain’t no country I’ve ever heard of. They speak English in What?
Brett: What?
Jules: English, @#$%)(&*%, do you speak it?
Brett: Yes! Yes!
Jules: Then you know what I’m sayin’!
Brett: Yes!
Jules: Describe what Marsellus Wallace looks like!
Brett: What?
Jules: Say ‘what’ again. Say ‘what’ again, I dare you, I double dare you @#$%)(&*%, say what one more *bleeping* time!

Image of London mural painted by Banksy, deriv...

Say “what” again!

Before I could irrationally yell, “Let’s get outta here,” I turned to find Grandpa Elmer heading toward us.  “Howdy!  That was supposed to be locked.”

Did Grandpa Elmer from Milan—pronounced “my-len”—know that I had discovered his illegal drugs?  Was he going to off me and Sweet Pea to make sure we never talked about what we saw?  I considered running but wasn’t sure if Sweet Pea would understand my non-verbal head-twitching cues or if she’d simply think I’d had too much Starbucks.

Redesigned logo used from 2011-present.

But that’s how I could explain my uncontrollable shaking to Grandpa Elmer!

I stammered, “I’m…I’m…it was open…thought it was okay…maybe gets locked at night—“

He smiled, hoisted his pants to mid-chest and told us it was his granddaughter’s car and he was helping sell it for his son.  I relaxed a little, figuring Grandpa Elmer was clueless to the car’s contents.

After spending a reasonable time chatting about the car, just in case Grandpa Elmer was a drug trafficker, Sweet Pea and I left.  A few miles down the road, a troubling thought occurred to me.  “Wait a minute…how did you know what that was?”

“I go to high school, Mom.”

“Oh yeah, right.”

I wondered if I should notify the owner.  What if a cop came to look at the car?  Even worse, what if a little old lady bought the car, got pulled over for driving too slow, and then got busted for possession?  I could see her running her fingers through her blue hair exclaiming, “I swear officer, it wasn’t my marijuana.  I have no clue how it got there!” Andy Taylor and Barney Fife would look at each other and say, “Yeah right, Grandma.  You were driving 18 mph in 40 mph zone.”

Sweet Pea chimed in her thoughts, “I think we should go back, call the owner and tell him unless he sells the car to us for $10,000 we’re going to call the cops.”

Suddenly, the fact that she knew what the contents were wasn’t so disconcerting.  It was the fact that she had extortion skills!  A tear trickled down my cheek as I realized my sweet little baby girl might someday enter politics.

© 2012 CThacker

What Not to Say When You Don’t Like Your Son’s Date

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Since all the crumb snatchers have reached the age where they don’t mind cooties from the opposite sex, we’ve met quite a few of their flames.  Lucky for us the fires burn out quickly.  We’ve liked most of their steadies except for “That One.”  That’s how we refer to her because it’s too hard to say “The Spoiled Little Rich Girl Brat That Your Mama Hates.”

The Eldest introduced me to her his senior year.  He’d had a crush on her since seventh grade.  We met at a restaurant and the moment she told my son what to order, I knew we were going to mix like Southern Baptists and a corner liquor store.  Then my son gazed admiringly at her and I thought, “Oh no, one day she’s going to pick out my nursing home!”

When she ordered she had a host of special requirements.  “No mayo puhlease, iceberg lettuce only puhlease, half ice only puhlease, and can you cook that to 162.5 degrees puhlease?”  I ordered a bag of chips—sealed puhlease—so I could make sure my food wasn’t spit on.

When lunch was over and she’d left the parking lot on her broom, I drove The Eldest home.  The inevitable question arose. “So what did you think?”  I feigned hearing loss and said, “I had Diet Pepsi son.”

“Huh?  No, what did you think about her?” The Eldest pushed.  I tried diversion and said, “The waitress was very good.”  With a huff, he said, “Stop playing Mom.  What did you think about That One?”  Only he used her real name.

“She’s nice.”

Now, everybody in the south knows what it means when you say “she’s nice.”  Unfortunately, I forgot that my son was from the south too.  With a disappointed look he asked, “What’s wrong with her?”  I tried reverse psychology.  “Nothing is wrong with her.  I could just eat her up with strawberries and whipped cream.”  I also forgot The Eldest knew I didn’t like strawberries and whipped cream.

red velvet cake with whipped cream, blueberrie...

If I’d said I could eat her up with mashed potatoes and gravy all would have been good!

Later that night I told Chief Money Maker, “I can’t stand her and I know he’s going to marry her!”  Level-headed Chief tried to calm me down.  “I think you’re overreacting, honey.”  Well, that’s certainly not the way to calm me down.

I yelled, “You weren’t there!  You didn’t see the way he looked at her.  I swear she’s already picking out her china.  And he knows I don’t like her, so he’s going to marry her just to spite me!”  Chief raised his eyebrows and said, “You told him you didn’t like her?”

“Of course not, you dufus.  I told him I could just eat her up with strawberries and whipped cream!”

“But you don’t like…ohhhhhhh.”  It takes a little while for his faucet to run hot, if you know what I mean.

Water Faucet

Wait…wait…wait…Oh NOW I get it!

It turns out that Chief was right.  They eventually broke up and like a good mother I was there to console him with a hug and bowl of fresh strawberries and whipped cream.  I might not like them, but I knew he did.

If you liked this story you can get more just like them in your email inbox every week.  Just click on the subscribe button to the right and enter your email address.  You don’t have to be a WordPress subscriber.

© 2012 CThacker

SWF Blogger Without Cake Habit Seeks Subscribers

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The first day of August marked the 1st birthday of The Crumb Snatcher Tales.  Unfortunately, there are no cute pictures of me in a high chair, sans shirt, cramming chocolate cake into my mouth.  There are only blurry pictures of that celebration.

Liam's First Birthday Party

Liam is much cuter than me sans shirt.

Since the blog’s inception, it has been hit 6,736 times and has gained a readership base of 338 followers.  Statistics show that I’ve secured 5% of the readers that have visited my blog.  If you subtract the times I’ve snagged unattended phones and hit up the blog on its browser, then that percentage skyrockets.  I should also get bonus points for securing Barry Parham as a subscriber.  See, Parham here’s got a job.  Parham’s got prospects.  He’s bona fide!

My top 3 posts were:

                                Boo-boos, Band-Aids, and Bumper Benders – A heart-wrenching account of Sweet Pea’s first vehicular accident.  I must warn you, the pictures attached with this blog aren’t for the faint of heart. 

                                Hey Blue, Are You Blind? And Other Things Sports-Parent Related – An informative piece on how parents should properly conduct themselves while attending sports events.  It also explains how the United American Men’s Right Field Club – also  known as BUBBAS – originated.                               

                                The Great Pizza Sauce Mystery - Sadly, this case still remains unsolved.  Authorities, when asked to comment for this anniversary edition, stated “We know someone, somewhere, knows something.  We believe the perpetrator is still out there and we won’t stop until justice is served.  Or until our shift is over.” 

My blog, “I Can See The Headline Now:  Woman Training for 2106 Olympics Eaten by Shark,” was Freshly Pressed on August 10th, 2012.  That garnered 703 views, 48 likes, 37 comments, and upped marshmallow consumption by 499.83% 

Here are some fun search terms that people typed to land on my blog:

  •  “Stick figure walking fat”
  • “Psychotic meds”
  •  “Should baseball umpires were protective cups”
  • “How to smuggle a skunk” 

And <drum roll, please>

  • “Sexy sadist with cake habit” – Three people landed on my blog through this search term.  Milk a wha???  Surprisingly, no one landed on my site by typing in “Milk a wha???”                

               

And finally, the 3 posts I enjoyed writing the most: 

 “We Must Stop the Curse”

 “The Whoopty-Do About the Whoopty-Do”

 “How an Automatic Firing Nerf Gun Lost the War” 

I would like to thank all my loyal readers and I hope I can continue to entertain you with another year of Crumb Snatcher Tales.  However, it costs a significant amount of money to bring these stories to you week after week.  That’s why today, operators are standing by to receive your generous pledges.  Even the smallest contribution can help. 

                “What’s that Jerry?  An anonymous donor has agreed to match all pledges received in the next 10 minutes?  That is wonderful news!” 

If you can’t donate monetarily, and really you can’t because WordPress doesn’t allow it, then you can help by spreading the word about Crumb Snatcher Tales.  Please use your preferred social media method to share YOUR favorite Crumb Snatcher Tale.  I would love to reach the goal of 500 subscribers by then end of this anniversary month! 

Comment below and tell me what you’ve enjoyed the most about Crumb Snatcher Tales, and then share my blog with 3 friends or Evil Stalker Kitty will hurt you.

Evil Cat - Veruca Version

You bring my human new subscribers or you die! Evil Cat – Veruca Version (Photo credit: INTVGene)

©2012 CThacker

I Can See The Headline Now: Woman Training for 2016 Olympics Eaten by Shark

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I’ve become the Forrest Gump of our swimming pool.  My family stands poolside chanting “Swim, Mama  Bread Baker, Swim” while I glide through the water.  They do this because I just learned to hold my breath for longer than a nanosecond—and because they wonder who will feed them if I drown.

With my newfound breath holding talent, I’ve decided to train for swimming events in the next Olympic Games.  The crumb snatchers said, “Wayyyyy cool.  Do they have the Senior Olympics every year?”  Their rehabilitation appointments to learn to walk again really cut into my training time.

Enjoy the Olympic Games on Samsung 3D Smart TV...

We’ll be right back to our blog posting after a brief commercial break….Enjoy the Olympic Games on Samsung 3D Smart TV with SBS London 2012 App (Photo credit: samsungtomorrow)

Chief Money Maker, a former lifeguard and seasoned beach partier, is my trainer.  I told Chief to train me just like he would Michael Phelps—only without the marijuana.  I’ve learned how to execute the freestyle stroke while simultaneously opening a beer for him.    My ultimate goal is to compete in the triathlon, as long as someone else can do the cycling and running part.

In our training sessions we’ve discovered a minor issue we need to work around.  My Body Marshmallow Index—or what doctors refer to as BMI—is a bit high.  It causes my derriere to act as a flotation device pulling me to the surface.  <I like roasted marshmallows, marshmallow crème, marshmallow pie, mini marshmallows, fried marshmallows…..> 

On the bright side, the next time the flight attendant tells me I can use my seat cushion as a flotation device, I’ll tell her I brought my own.  Now I can also replace my irrational fear of drowning at sea with the more rational fear of being eaten by a shark while I float at sea.  

PhotonQ-Two Sharks and one Barracuda waiting f...

Two Sharks and one Barracuda waiting for…what ? And why am I at sea to begin with? Did my plane make a water landing?

 I’ve discovered that swimming is great exercise and burns a lot of calories.  For every hour I leisurely swim, my body is burning 556 calories.  That’s 76 more calories burned than three cups of wine consumed.  At this rate, according to my calculations, I should lose about 1.13 pounds annually, helping to lower my Body Marshmallow Index.  <…boiled marshmallows, marshmallow soufflé, marshmallow salad, chocolate marshmallow eggs…>

As always, I’ve used my newfound goals as “teaching moments” for the crumb snatchers.  I found something that interests me and I’ve set my sights on the lofty goal of Olympic competition—senior status aside.  I’m working hard, training, and dedicating myself to a diet and exercise routine that will help me accomplish those goals.  So the “teachable moment” here is that when I’m on my floating raft with a wine glass in hand and I say, “Not now Sweetie…Mommy’s training,” then get the heck inside and leave me alone!

My Mama always said, “Life is like a bottle of wine.  Sometimes you can get the cork out, and sometimes you just have to shove it down into the bottle.”  That doesn’t really have anything to do with my post.  I just couldn’t get my wine bottle opener to work properly.  <…marshmallow peeps, marshmallow fudge, marshmallow crispy treats, marshmallow marble cake…>

Wine opening cat

Maybe evil stalker kitty sabotaged my opener!Wine opening cat (Photo credit: ninanord)

I hope I’ll be able to keep up my blog posts while vigorously swim training.  I’ve asked my trainer to set some new goals for me to keep me motivated.  Next week we’ll work on holding my breath UNDER water.  <…marshmallow delights, marshmallow tarts…>

© 2012 CThacker

It’s Back to School Again…Time to Close the Blinds and Do the Nekkid Happy Dance!

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It seems like just yesterday I was bemoaning the fact that the crumb snatchers were out of school for the summer.  Ok, so actually it WAS yesterday and every day of summer break. But, school resumes August 6th and I’m as giddy as a trailer park bride on her first shopping trip with her new “Big Daddy’s” credit card!

The summer flew by quickly.  I’m remorseful that I didn’t accomplish all the goals I set at the beginning.  We ticked off a trip to the Pink Palace, a day at Pickwick, a beach vacation, and identified most of the strains of algae growing in the man cave.  Unfortunately, we ran out of time before we could visit the Civil Rights Museum, or tag the source of the mordacious odor in the mini-van. 

Milestones were reached this summer.  Wolfy obtained his learner’s permit and has been driving Chief Money Maker up and down Bartlett’s sidewalks ever since. 

Clear the sidewalks….Wolfy’s got a driver permit!

The Nephew flew from the nest after we shoved him out and now resides in a Midtown apartment with a friend.  And, because being one talking dog away from a sitcom wasn’t enough, we now have Manning the cat. 

Let’s get this clear right now…You may write about me, but I have full editorial rights. Capiche?

I’ve never owned a cat—but I hear neither has anyone else.  It has been a 3:30 in the morning, something has pounced on Chief Money Maker’s face scaring the bejeezus out of him experience.  I have also learned to check around corners for this mini panther before exposing my remaining toes.  Jumper the Dog, once ruler of the corner section of the sofa, now gracefully bows to the gentle “no-no” pats from Manning as he lounges in Jumper’s former spot.  I’ve shown the cat the house deed identifying us as the owners, but he’s disinterested in this information.

This last week of summer will be filled with to-do lists, shopping lists, school supply lists, and large swigs from “Mommy’s special juice cup”, although I don’t think I’m fooling the crumb snatchers with that one any longer.  We’ll venture out for Tax Free Weekend to snag supplies and clothes.  I did a quick browse of the Tennessee Department of Revenue’s tax free directory to make sure the items on our list were exempt.  

I was surprised to learn that protective wear—defined as items for human wear and designed as protection of the wearer against injury or disease or as protections against damage or injury of other persons or property—is not covered.  Maybe they set off the school’s metal detectors? However, garters, garter belts, girdles, bras, and corsets are covered.  That’s as ludicrous as Paula Dean heading up a New York City tourism council.  “Hey ya’ll.  Come on out and visit us and take a ride on our underground choo-choos!”  

New York City Subway

New York City Subway (Photo credit: http2007)

As we approach the glorious Back to School season, I’ll leave you with George Washington Carver’s words of wisdom—“Education is the key to unlock the golden door of freedom.”  If it also unlocks the mystery of the odoriferous smell in the mini-van, I’d be ecstatic. 

© 2012 CThacker

Foreign Exchange Program or Foreign Insane Program?

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 See, what had happened was Earl and ‘Dem—‘Dem being Earl’s wife—went insane and got themselves a teenaged crumb snatcher on purpose.    Earl and ‘Dem already have Princess—a 9 year old crumb snatcher.  I figured Earl and ‘Dem would naturally learn about teenagers when Princess reaches 13, at which time she will be dubbed Queen of Hormonal Turmoil for the span of about five years. 

Hormones that control puberty table 08

Hormones that control puberty table 08 (Photo credit: Wikipedia) No wonder we can’t understand teenagers!

‘Dem is my little sister from my college social club and I used to think she was sane.  She reads my column, so I know she’s been adequately warned of the dangers of teenage inhabitation.   Yet,  Earl and ‘Dem still decided to get a teenage even without a 13 year 9 month gestational period that stemmed from a passionate make-out session in the backseat of a 1998 Honda Accord while listening to Bone Thugs N-Harmony’s love song, “Look Into My Eyes.”

Bone Thugs n' Harmony

Rappin’ “Look into my eyes baby or I’m gonna @$&^% slap ya!”
These guys are so romantic! Bone Thugs n’ Harmony (Photo credit: Dj Linda Lovely)

The teenager they took on was a Swedish foreign exchange student. I asked ‘Dem how they reached that decision and she told me how her brother was getting one, how she thought it would be cool, how Earl and ‘Dem researched the workings of the transaction, how they browsed the internet and selected a candidate, and mutually decided it would be beneficial for the family, i.e. free babysitting for Princess.

Earl says it occurred like this.

                ‘Dem said, “My brother’s getting a foreign exchange student!”

                Earl said, “That’s nice.”

Three weeks later JJ was in their home making Swedish Kringles and asking, “Kanske jag lånar bilnycklarna?”  Which means, “May I borrow the car keys?” 

Earl warmed up to the idea of having JJ in their home once she learned to sing the Alabama Crimson Tide fight song which they convinced her was our national anthem.  They also taught her that Memphis BBQ was the national dish, Elvis Presley was the most revered deceased president in our nation’s history, and that 98% humidity is the norm for American weather.  Even though I questioned their decision, I’m really proud that they sacrificed this last year to educate someone about our wonderful American history.

JJ flew back to Sweden a couple of weeks ago and as ‘Dem and I lounged in her pool and discussed their experience with the foreign exchange program, I mentioned how glad I was her stint of temporary insanity worked out as well as it did.  She looked at me and said, “Well, we’ve decided to get another one.”  Right then and there, I called Chief Money Maker and told him to switch our pool to chlorine because there was clearly something in the saltwater that affects the brain.

At least this time Earl will have more involvement in the decision making process.  He gets to choose whether they will drive his truck or ‘Dem’s vehicle to the airport to pick up their new male foreign exchange student from Germany.  I pried into their personal finances a bit and asked if they had already secured their financing for pantry stocking.  They had no clue what I meant, so I went home and told Chief Money Maker to take all our savings and invest in the stock market.  Doritos and Pizza Roll stocks are about to rise!

Totino's - Pizza Rolls Pepperoni

Better get ‘em while they’re still in stock!

 

© 2012 CThacker

Year-Round or Beat Down? Why I’m Against Summer Breaks!

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I’m a proponent of year-round schools.  Now before you start whining that without a full summer break Little Johnny and Suzie won’t be able to hunt frogs, or discover that they have different parts “down there,” or get gunned down in a     drive-by shooting, let me speak.  Before you complain that Tommy Jr. won’t be able to sit around all day shooting zombies while talking on his headset with some 48 year-old pedophile still living in his mother’s basement, hear me out.

 

English: Zombies

The kids will be safer in schools when the zombie apocalypse breaks out.

 Year-round schools are in session the same number of days as traditional schools.  The only difference is that the breaks are spread out differently; minimizing the amount of time they remain at home driving you insane.  Are you feeling me now?  It also allows for more time to process your 401K loan to restock the pantry before their next break.

The crumb snatchers have been out of school for 3 weeks, 5 days, 20 hours, 26 minutes, and 48 seconds—give or take a few seconds depending on internet speed at time of posting.  In that timeframe, my writing has been interrupted 3,827 times.  The front door has been opened 1,794 times.  And Unilever stock has risen solely due to the crumb snatcher’s consumption of Fudgsicles.  In my opinion, that is time better served in biology learning euphemisms for the anatomically correct names of female parts that apparently can no longer be said on the congressional floor.

Fudgsicle wrapper

My next campaign will be to have the “No Sugar Added” removed from the front of the box. Crossing it out with a sharpie isn’t fooling the crumb snatchers!

When the crumb snatchers return in August, they will spend the first few weeks reviewing what they forgot from the last few weeks of the previous year.  Sweet Pea recently asked if beef jerky was made from deer meat.  Granted, she transferred from Mississippi to Tennessee in the middle of her freshman year, knocking her out of sync with the whole southern teachings of wild game and how to eat them.   But I’m sure, had she been in year-round school, she would have been taught the distinction.

G-Bear was bored so he researched how to build a paintball gun with PVC pipe and medicine bottles.  I found our medications scattered all over the bathroom counter.  I’m suspicious that my hormone medication was interchanged with Chief Money Maker’s little blue pills.  For the last three weeks he’s done nothing but watch Lifetime movies while complaining that I never listen to him.  Meanwhile, I’ve gained 20 pounds from sitting at the bar drinking beer all day.  When I come home, I throw him my sexiest look, burp, and ask if he wants to “get busy.” He just starts crying.  This tragedy could have been avoided had G-Bear been in year-round school.

We had a plan of action to minimize the impact of the crumb snatchers being home all summer.  We decided to have a swimming pool built so our threats of drowning them would be taken a little more seriously than they were in previous summers.  But since that project is coming to fruition about as quickly as peace in the Middle East, I think it’s time to load up the crumb snatchers, drop them off at the contractors house and tell him I’ll pick them up when the pool is done.  I can    ga-ron-teee that’ll put some pep in his step.

I need wayyyyyy more water than this to drown the crumb snatchers!

Year-round school not only leads to healthier, well-adjusted children, it also minimizes co-pays for Xanax prescriptions.  No Child Left Behind and Obomacare wrapped into one—it’s a win-win situation.

I have to go now.  I just heard the last wrapper removed from a Fudgsicle and Chief Money Maker is crying that no one ever thinks about him.  I need more beer.

© 2012 CThacker

We Must Stop “The Curse”

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There’s a tragic cycle of parenting that carries from generation to generation that must be broken.  It must stop with ours.  It must stop now.  I’m not talking about spanking, or free-will parenting, or planting your child in front of the tube to watch Sponge Bob while you sneak to the patio to down a glass of wine.  I’m talking about the “One Day I Hope You Have a Child Just Like You” curse.

Rolan's Curse II

I have no idea who Rolan is, but he obviously has two teen crumb snatchers since this is his 2nd curse.

You know your parents said it to you, and if you’ve been blessed with a child that has reached their adolescent phase, you know you’ve at least wanted to cast it upon them.  Yes, “The Curse” works but I believe the electric chair is a more humane punishment.

In the last week, I have seen “The Curse” manifest in the crumb snatchers and it isn’t a pretty sight.  I know I wasn’t a piece of cake as a teenager, and I doubt Chief Money Maker was either, but did we really deserve “The Curse?”  I think not!

Last night, Sweet Pea asked for my help getting her cartilage earring back in.  Since I’m not a spring chicken anymore my eyesight is a little off.  Like, “Mama that’s drainage ditch, not a highway exit” off.  I couldn’t see the hole in her ear.  So in her eyes, I suddenly became a horrible mother. 

The next thing I know, Sweet Pea is in tears and throwing a tantrum.  I yelled, “I hate you,” because we never fight and I forgot that the rules of Teenagedom state that she is supposed to yell that phrase at me.  Later, we talked about it and she said, “I’m sorry Mama.  Sometimes I just get so frustrated that I take it out on those around me.  I’m just like you.”  Before I could open my mouth to protest, she cut me a look and said, “You know it’s true.”  Yeah, it is.

Mamá

Sweet Pea has more hair than this drawing…and she’s a girl.

I also witnessed “The Curse” with G-Bear and Chief Money Maker as they father-son bonded over a woodworking project I requested for flower boxes.  In between patient instructions and hammered-thumb expletives, I watched Chief Money Maker’s frustration grow.  When G-Bear insisted on “doing it his way” Chief Money Maker sat back and allowed G-Bear to split the wood on the project. 

Chief yelled, “Oooh, Mama Bread Baker is gonna be maaaad.”  But I digress.  Then he said, “I told you.  But you’re so stubborn and hard-headed you had to do it your way.”  G-Bear said—wait for it—“Dad, I’m just like you.”  Before Chief could open his mouth to protest, I cut him a look and said, “You know it’s true.” 

As you can see, “The Curse” works, although the damage doesn’t manifest until years later.  I can envision our parents sitting around in their clean living rooms with their stocked pantries without the sounds of door-slamming or exclamations of “You just don’t understand!”  They’re looking at their watches and smiling at one another.  “Honey, it’s 2012.  The Curse should have kicked in by now.”

I might be over forty, but I still say this is child abuse!

© 2012 CThacker

From A-Z Graduates Get Their Key to the Future…or the Local Convenience Store Bathroom

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Prom season is over and graduation season has arrived.  Unfortunately, none of the crumb snatchers are graduating this year.  Not from college, high school, middle school, or Starbucks barista training.  Chief Money Maker’s nephew, Rainbow, however did graduate from high school this past weekend. 

graduation

graduation (Photo credit: Sean MacEntee)

In a solemn ceremony filled with speeches about their bright futures—minus the statistical data on how many will be married, divorced, and crushed under the weight of student loans by their ten year reunion—the graduates crossed the stage and received the key to their future.  Given the whoops and hollers of relief that many students received, I’d venture to guess that their key will be good for opening the bathroom doors for customers at the local corner convenience store.

Graduation brings mixed emotions for the parents.  It’s the day you thought was eons away when you sent your little one off for the first day of kindergarten with their Scooby-Doo lunch box and Crayola crayons.  I always had the 8 count box which is why I never got to hang out with the cool kids.  I bought the 24 count for the crumb snatchers.  If you start them off with the 64 count, then next it’s the markers, and before you know it they expect you to make the down payment on their first home.  Trust me—the lessons of moderation begin in kindergarten.

World-famous Crayola crayons are manufactured ...

It all starts with a 64 count box of crayons!

It’s also the day you fervently prayed would arrive once your child reached their teen years and knew significantly more than you.  And when their rooms started to smell like a local land-fill.

Graduation also brings gift-giving time.  People send money, towels, sheets, and other gifts that say, “We’re so proud of you, now get out of your parents home!”

Advice abounds during graduation season.  Some of my favorites come from Wes Smith in his book “Welcome to the Real World.”

  • Hardly anyone cares that you chugged 13 beers without throwing up last night.
  • No worthwhile conversation ever began at a bar with ferns.
  • Never introduce your girlfriend to a wealthy widower.

And I would like to pass along a bit Mama Bread Baker’s own advice for those heading off to college.

  • Join a social group.  You’ll need some friends that are bound by the oaths you recited on hell night to make sure the photos of the party never get posted to Facebook.
  • Buy the cafeteria plan your freshman year.  It won’t be until after Biology 102 before you can determine if the amount of mold on your roommate’s leftover pizza is lethal.
  • When your roommate heads out to do laundry, offer to keep an eye on it for them.  If they accept, you can toss yours in with theirs. 
  • Call your mother once a week.  You’ll want her to make you a real meal when you come home to visit.
  • Call your father once a week.  Should the need arise, you’ll want him to be available to bail you out of jail and to keep it from your mother.

Congratulations to 2012 Seniors!

And for those with crumb snatcher graduating from kindergarten, take a few moments to check out this cute post by Jenn McClory, another blogger. Why Kindergarten Graduations Are Confusing (jennmcclory.com)

© 2012 CThacker

Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car, Joey Tribbiani!

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 If dreams are our subconscious working out issues from our everyday life, the episode that played out in my head last night is screaming that I need a therapist—like YESTERDAY!  I’ve spent most of the morning trying to analyze the weirdest dream I can recall ever having.

I was back in my rural East Texas hometown preparing to attend prom.  Not as the svelte 17 year-old teenager I wish I had been, but in my current 43 year-old run-down body.  I was dressed in Sweet Pea’s prom dress but not her matching shoes.  Strangely enough, in reality I can actually wear her shoes.  Her prom dress, though, would barely fit my right arm, and only because it’s slightly smaller than my left.  I self-analyzed that this portion of my dream spoke to my weight loss efforts.  It also might be addressing a deep-seeded resentment that Sweet Pea won’t let me wear her shoes.

Shoes in a shop

It’s not Sweet Pea’s closet, but it’s close!

In the next part of my dream, I was standing alone against the wall at the prom as I watched my classmates dance and have a good time—actually this was more a flashback to my real senior prom.  I kept hoping the DJ would play Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” because this time I knew the moves from Wii’s Just Dance 2.  Instead, everyone was shaking their booties to Rye Rye’s “Boom Boom.”  I think the dream was telling me to let the past go, or to download more current songs to my IPod.

I left the prom and returned to my childhood home.  I changed, told my mother I was going out for a while, and asked when she wanted me home.  She smiled sweetly and said, “Honey, what time do you think it should be?”  I explained that I had given Sweet Pea a curfew of 2 a.m. on her prom night, and as my mother frowned at me, I promptly explained, “but she was home by 12:15!”  My mother smiled again and said I could stay out until 2 a.m. “if I felt I really needed to.”  Outside of the obvious Freudian analysis that I still seek my mother’s approval, I think this part of the dream was telling me that I should get to bed earlier.

I went outside and climbed into the car I had in high school, a 1980 Mustang.  But instead of the original automatic transmission, it was now a stick-shift.  This was easy to relate to current life since we just replaced the engine in Chief Money Maker’s truck.  Or, it could be that I’m a resentful middle-aged soccer/baseball/softball mini-van driving mother that wishes she had a sports car.

Ford Mustang IV

Yeah, this could work!

As I drove away, I saw several guys I knew from high school hanging out at the end of my driveway—in little red wagons.  I think, subconsciously, I was trying to determine at what age men actually mature.  But just like we’ll never know how many men it takes to change a toilet paper roll—because it’s never been done—this too is a question that will most likely remain unanswered.

And here’s where things get weird.  Suddenly, I was in Officer D.A.R.’s truck (the X & Y chromosome donor for Sweet Pea & The Eldest) but Chief Money Maker was driving.  We have an ex-Marine friend that claims he can legally off someone and get away with it once due to military trauma.  I think my subconscious was suggesting I take him up on that offer.  Or maybe we should have stolen my ex’s truck instead of replacing Chief Money Maker’s engine.  I’m not real sure.

I finally shouted that I wanted to go home—but I didn’t click my heels together three times—so somehow I ended up in a hotel room.  The last thing I remember is that Chief Money Maker and Joey Tribbiani from Friends were asleep on the bed and I was sneaking a picture of them to post on Facebook.  I don’t even want to venture to guess how that portion of the dream relates to the rest of the dream, or how it relates to my life at all.  I just want Chief Money Maker to get out of the dream and leave me alone with Joey Tribbiani! 

There’s an anonymous quote that says, “Be careful what you wear to bed at night, you never know who you’ll meet in your dreams.”  Tonight, I’m wearing Sweet Pea’s prom shoes.

                                                                “How you doin?”

Calgon Take Me Away!

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  • Prom Dress:                                           A second mortgage
  • Getting Sweet Pea’s “her did”:          A day’s salary WITH a 50% off coupon
  • Manicure/Pedicure:                            56,944.57 yen–before tip
  • Bottle of wine:                                       $13.79*
  • Locking keys in van:                            Remaining sanity & a Xanax
  • Seeing Sweet Pea off to prom with The Boyfriend:

                                                    PRICELESS

*Wine was for ME–not the underage Prom-goers

Last Saturday saw the culmination of four month’s worth of preparation that involved more planning than required to establish the government of a small country.  It started in January with the search for the perfect prom dress, and Chief Money Maker’s second mortgage application to pay for it.

Then we moved along to the search for the perfect shoes that would be worn for pictures then promptly kicked off for the remaining three hours of the prom.

Then onto the search for hairstyles which lasted about a month and generated conversations like this:

  • ME:  That’s very pretty Sweet Pea, but her hair is about 8 inches longer than yours.
  • SWEET PEA: But I’m taking Biotin which is supposed to make your hair grow.
  • ME:  Yes, but it’s not Miracle Grow and your hair isn’t a tomato vine!

After all accessories were acquired, the dress was taken in for alterations where I had this conversation with the seamstress:

  • ME:  It’s a bit low-cut.  Can we adjust the neck straps to this length? (I showed her about six inches–female inches, not male inches, because there is a difference you know!)
  • SEAMSTRESS:  Yes m’am I can, but then the bodice would be around her ears and not her…ummm…you know.
  • ME:  Perfect!  How much do I owe you?

The day before the prom we picked up the dress from the seamstress and took it to the dry cleaner to get steamed.  When we hung the dress on the dry cleaner rack, Sweet Pea’s face suddenly drained of all color and she gasped in so much air that she pulled the moon closer to Earth, which is the real cause of the following night’s SuperMoon despite what scientists might believe. 

A perigee-syzygy of the Earth-Moon-Sun system ...

In the transition, the beaded bodice of the dress caught on the hanger pulling approximately 3 of the 4,827 beads out of place–and of course she immediately spotted them.  I then had this conversation:

  • ME:  Sweet Pea, breathe, breathe–somebody get me a paper sack!  She’s hyperventilating!

Finally, it was prom day.  The dress was picked up, with beads intact.  We had a wonderful mother-daughter bonding experience getting manicures and pedicures.  The next appointment gave Sweet Pea flowing curly locks, and movie star make up.  All that was left now was to go home, dress, and take pictures.  And then the universe stood still……..

I HAD LOCKED MY KEYS IN THE VAN

The rest of the afternoon was a blur but I remember bits and pieces of the conversations:

  • ME:  Oh gawd, oh gawd, please don’t cry, please don’t cry…I just paid to have your makeup done!
  • ME:  Let’s wait in here where it’s cooler until I can get in touch with Chief Money Maker.
  • SWEET PEA:  Mom!  It’s a hot wings joint!  I’ll smell like chicken at my prom!
  • ME:  Oh gawd, oh gawd, please don’t cry, please don’t cry…I just paid to have your makeup done!
  • SWEET PEA:  How could you do this to me????  You’ve ruined my life!
  • ME:  Oh gawd, oh gawd, please don’t cry, please don’t cry…I just paid to have your makeup done!
  • ME:  Chief Money Maker, get up here RIGHT NOW.  I’ve locked the keys in the van.
  • CHIEF MONEY MAKER:  Oh gawd, oh gawd, please don’t cry, please don’t cry…you’ll make Sweet Pea cry and you just paid to have her makeup done!

We finally made it home, got Sweet Pea dressed, pictures made, and we shoved her and The Boyfriend out the door. 

The Boyfriend’s mother and I sat down at the table with a sigh of relief and enjoyed a glass of wine.  Everything had worked out well, and I was satisfied that I had covered everything that needed to be done, until I received this call:

  • SWEET PEA:  MOM!  How do I go to the bathroom in this dress?

Sometimes I wish I had all boys!

© 2012 CThacker

I’m Too Sexy For My Shirt–and Other Uncool Things To Do and Say Around Your Teenagers!

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We all want to be cool, right?  Word up!  Except “word up” hasn’t been the code word since 1986, despite the song’s lyrics claiming otherwise.  In terms of temperature, my “coolness” reading rises and falls as quickly as MC Hammer. 

Look Look Look

You can’t touch this but the IRS can!

On good days, I’m fortunate to have children that tolerate me.  Let’s not even discuss the bad days.  I’m just thankful that I’ve reached the age when my children know more than I do.  For example, I don’t know where I would be without Sweet Pea’s fashion advice.  Apparently, it isn’t cool to shop for groceries in my yellow ducky lounging pants with my “Writer Chick” t-shirt.  I argued, “But I’m theme coordinated!”  She hitched a ride home.

I’ve also learned that what one crumb snatcher finds cool, the others may not.  I received an assignment to cover the Tennessee Titans Caravan at a local elementary school where I would also interview a Titans player.  G-Bear, when I relayed the news, shrugged his shoulders and said “Eh.”  My coolness temp registered below freezing.  The Eldest, however, thought I was wayyyyy cool and went on the assignment with me as my photographer. 

Tennessee Titans logo

Circumstances can quickly change what I deem as cool.  We checked in at the office and the staff recognized my name from my column.  Cool.  Then they scanned my I.D. and the computer spit out a name tag that identified me as “Reri Hacker.”  Not cool—no offense to Reri.  The computer gave The Eldest a name tag with only his first and middle name, which we all know means you are so cool that a last name isn’t required.

We were then taken to the Titan bus to interview Jared Cook, the Titans tight end.  Cool.   Then the Eldest got us thrown from the bus when he taunted that Cook would be eating turf—and not the kind normally joined by surf—on 10/11 against the Steelers.  Not cool.  Suddenly, being Reri Hacker wasn’t so bad after all. 

It’s also strange to see what young children find cool these days.  As we left the school, The Eldest received high-fives from an entire line of six-year-olds.  He thinks it was because he looked cool with the camera hanging from his neck.  I say they thought he was Ronald McDonald and they hoped to score a happy meal.

The shirt also explains why he was kicked from the Titans bus!

So if you want to be considered cool by your teenagers, here are some Do’s and Don’ts:

                DO:  Ignore them completely when they are in the midst of their peers.

                DON’T:  Yell out “Yo Sup Homes?”

                DO:  Cook a ham for Sunday dinner

                DON’T:  Tell your teen you’re going to “Go all HAM” on their teacher

                DO:  Show your pleasure when your teen brings you exciting news         

                DON’T:  Shout out “Oh-em-gee, that’s freaking awesome fo sho!”

It’s hard to be a cool parent and the standards change from day to day.  Just remember that “this too shall pass.”  I gotta bounce now.  The crumb snatchers might think I’m trippin’ but here’s what I have to say to that:

WORD UP!

© 2012 CThacker

Skipping Your Anti-Psychotic Meds Leads to Volunteerism

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I forgot to take my anti-psychotic medication one day and I volunteered to chaperone six teenage girls on a softball trip to Gulf Shores this weekend.   The voices in my head told me to do it.  Those silly voices—they’re a hoot with their practical jokes.  Now I have to go fill my Xanax prescription to quiet them.

Gulf Shores, Alabama. Beach.

Ahhh, surf, sand, and a team of softball girls. The voices said "It'll be fun...we promise!"

That whole “Just Say No” to volunteering campaign led by First Lady Nancy Reagan was obviously a complete failure.  I can understand why she started that campaign though because I’m sure she had a lot more requests to volunteer her time than I do.  What’s that you say?  It was “Just Say No” to drugs?  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh. 

Official White House photograph of Nancy Reaga...

Does "Just Say No" include my Xanax?

I also volunteered for G-Bear’s career fair at school.  The students will visit tables to learn how to become firemen, policemen, astronauts, and professional liars—also known as political candidates.  I’ll tell them how they can write about those things.  And provide them with my writer’s guide—“Surviving on a Writer’s Income: 99 Ways to Prepare Ramen Noodles.”  I’m considering offering my follow up edition as well—“How to Hone Your Fast Food Fry Making Skills”—but don’t want to overwhelm them with information.

Chief Money Maker also volunteered for the career fair.  Since I have no clue what he does, I’m not sure how he’s going to help a bunch of seventh graders understand either.

                CMM:  “I work for HP.”

                STUDENT:  “Cool, so do you make computers?”

                CMM:  “No, I design strategic plans for large corporations to integrate and manage their internal data structures and technology needs through continued support and help centers.”

                STUDENT:  “Where’s the table with the pamphlet on honing your fry making skills?”

Volunteering is simply part of parenting.  If you don’t volunteer yourself, your children will volunteer for you.  They do this because they don’t want to feel left out, and because they have deep-seeded resentment that they passively aggressively act out on by volunteering you and then informing you of such approximately 14 minutes and 23 seconds before you have to perform your duty.

I have to cut this short today because I just received a text that my Xanax is ready and I have to start preparing to leave at 5 a.m. tomorrow morning for Gulf Shores.  This means I’ll get to bed at 3 a.m. after running around all day getting prepared for the trip while Sweet Pea does nothing but ask, “Does this swimsuit make my butt look big?”

Pray for me.  Pray hard.

Tell about the craziest thing you’ve volunteered for…or your crumb snatchers have volunteered you for.

© 2012 CThacker

The Whoopty-Do About the Whoopty-Do

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I want to discuss a very delicate subject this week and I will need to tread lightly.  Please note that I pondered long and hard about whether or not this subject should be broached.  As an aspiring humorist, I work hard to maintain a lighthearted atmosphere in my blog posts.  Oh who am I kidding!?  I was ready to jump all over this topic like a 3-year-old jumps on a happy meal!

Happy Meal logo, English

I came across an article this morning that stated some idiots parents are allowing their teenagers to have sex in their homes.  Milk-a-wha??????  Apparently this topic was all abuzz on Twitter and the news this past summer.  I must have missed the hullabaloo while I was busy organizing our family’s annual Barrel of Monkeys competition.  I’ve decided to reopen that can of worms and fire up that topic again for several reasons:

                1)  It deals with sex and sex sells. 

                2)  It’s controversial and controversy sells.

                And most importantly:

                3)  I can’t remember…maybe I’ll think of it by the end of this post.

First of all, let me say that under certain circumstances, I would not be opposed to the crumb snatchers bumping uglies in our home.  What would those circumstances be, you might ask?  Well I’m glad you did, ‘cause I was going to tell you anyway. 

Circumstances Under Which The Crumb Snatchers Can Have Sex In Our Home 

                  When we’re dead and gone, you’ve bought out your sibling’s share of our home, and you’ve moved into it with your husband and children then you may “park the car in the garage of love”—the first Tuesday of every month like normal married people. 

(The preceding opinion is that of the author’s.  The printing herein does not necessarily reflect the opinions of the owner of this blog.  However, since they are one and the same, it kinda does.  I just think legal disclaimers are pretty cool.) 

Ok, ok, maybe those circumstances are a little overboard.  They can pick any day that first week of the month.  See, I’m a flexible parent.

I was really flabbergasted at the logic behind this idea.  Something about how they’re going to do it anyway and allowing it at home is cleaner and safer than the woods.  I have to admit, I’m a little jealous if someone has a teenager with a room cleaner than the woods!

Part of Sulham Woods West of the Little Heath ...

See that stuff on the side of the road? It's GROWING in your teenagers room!

Look, Chief Money Maker and I aren’t naïve.  We know that our crumb snatchers have hormones surging through their bodies like water flows over Niagra Falls.  We talk openly to them about sex, protection, consequences, sexually transmitted diseases, and how it’s not really anything like you see in the movies.  Come on—you know your hair never looks that good after doing the bad boogey!

I believe there is a fine line between openly discussing sex with your teenagers and opening your home for bouncing the pogo stick.  That line in our house is the six inches of personal space they must maintain at all times or Chief Money Maker gets antsy with his trigger finger.  I can’t help but wonder—if you allow it to occur in your home with your knowledge, what’s the next step?  Do you toss ‘em up a cigarette when they’re done with the naughty? 

You might also think that teenagers across the board are all for this idea, but you would think incorrectly.  In the video interview from Good Morning America, one of the teenagers on the panel said that by openly approving sex in your home, you are eliminating one of their strongest arguments to their boyfriends for not doing the naked dance—The “My Parents Will Kill Me” argument.  Now that’s a girl whose had some proper raising.

Oh, that just reminded me of my third reason for this post.

                3)  I wanted to send a message to our crumb snatchers—See above teenager’s argument for not having sex.

I have to go now.  I just read another headline that needs my attention:

                                                “Granny ‘drug kingpin’ busted in Oklahoma”

It’s a crazy world…………

© 2012 CThacker

“Hey Blue, Are You Blind?” And Other Things Sports-Parent Related

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In my blog this week, I want to address sports etiquette.  Proper sports etiquette–regardless of the sport–includes hand-shaking, saying good game, and attempting not to call the officials “fat bastards.”  Oh, and the players should follow these rules too! 

In high school, I earned summer money keeping score for Little League games. I quickly learned the backstop wasn’t erected to prevent balls from hitting the spectators. It was strategically placed to protect the umpires from savage enthusiastic Moms. 

American Little League Baseball

Hahaha! You can't get me through the fence!

When The Eldest began playing baseball, I will never forget the sight of nine little pairs of eyes peeking from the dugout to see whose Mom was getting thrown out of the park for yelling at the umpire. When he met me in the parking lot after the game he said, “Mom, please don’t do that again.” 

While the Moms are busy yelling at the umpires, the Dads are yelling at their crumb snatchers. The Eldest has a story from his own umpping days. He recalls one particular game where a Dad constantly yelled from the stands, “Pay attention son! Get the ball son! Throw the ball son! Catch the ball son!” The Dad then moved to the right field fence and in exasperation asked, “Son, what in tarnation are you doing?” 

From his position on the ground, the child gave a growl and replied, “I’m a tiger!!” Yes, it starts with Tee-ball.  

T-Ball practice

T-Ball stands for "Tiny kids picking their nose on a baseball diamond while parents expect them to play a game." (Photo credit: hubertk)

Recently Chief Money Maker was initiated into the United American Men’s Right Field Club for Softball Dads—often called BUBBAS for short. I asked what they do out there, but he told me he couldn’t tell me without risk of permanently losing his man card. 

I have my own suspicions about what goes on. I think they take bets on whose wife will lead the charge against the umpire. What other explanation is there for the extra cash he had in his wallet last week? 

Wolfy is the goalkeeper for his soccer team. Now I know nothing about soccer except you can get flagged for offside, but I’ve yet to see a quarterback in the game. 

Whereas I might be in jeopardy of getting tossed from a softball game, Chief Money Maker is thrice as embarrassing at a soccer game. Yes, you read that right…THRICE! 

After years of refereeing soccer, coaching, and playing goalkeeper, I have to tether him to his chair to keep him from trying to take over all three positions at once. And believe me, the duct tape across his mouth is about as useful as dubbing Eddie Murphy’s curse words for a network showing of “Beverly Hills Cop.” It ain’t fooling anyone! 

Eddie Murphy at Tribeca Film Festival 2010

You can dub all you want, but we know what you REALLY said Eddie!

Then we’ve got G-Bear and my nephew, Lil’ Scro, teaming up as a pitch and catch duo for baseball. I spent two years keeping score for their team. Do you know how difficult it is to record the plays while holding down Chief Money Maker? I’ve insisted that he form a chapter of the United American Men’s Right Field Club for Baseball Dads—ironically also called BUBBAS—because he can’t sit by me this season. 

But seriously folks, we need to keep in mind that sports activities are intended to teach our children life lessons about leadership, teamwork, organization, and lots of other stuff that–in theory–will one day be utilized in the work force.  And if a parent gets a little crazy in the stands, I like to use it as a teaching moment on hypocrisy.  Or more commonly taught as, “Look crumb snatchers…Do as I say, not as I do!” 

© 2012 CThacker

10 Lesser Known Murphy’s Laws-Mama Bread Baker Style

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1.  The pillows that come with your Bed-In-A-Bag set never look the same on your bed as they did in the photo.  The pillows they use for the photo shoot are genetically altered, steroid-enhanced pillows.  The ones you receive are their southern inbred cousins that just lie limp daring you to criticize their lazy attempt at fluff.

pillows piled in the corner of a bed

Would it hurt you to at least pretend you are a fluffly pillow?

2.  Six months after you pay off any vehicle—give or take one day—your engine will blow.  The cost for a new engine will be exactly 25% of the original vehicle price—give or take one penny.  To avoid this issue, never pay off your vehicle.  Refinance when you have one payment left and spread the payments out for as long as the bank will allow. 

3.  The minute you plan a day for yourself, at least one crumb snatcher will end up in the principal’s office and you will be called in to discuss your child’s inability to keep their hands to themselves.  If you were especially brave and scheduled a massage, one or more crumb snatchers will end up in the emergency room. 

4.  If you decide to add an inground swimming pool to your property, you will meet every neighbor the minute the backhoe arrives—even the creepy ones who you normally only see after dark. 

backyard swimming pool

It's nice to meet you after living next door to each other for ten years!

5.  A text you intended to send to your current spouse—that calls your ex-spouse a no good rotten piece of feces—always goes to the ex-spouse.  It doesn’t matter if you checked the contact name multiple times before sending.

6.  Lower calorie, healthy snack options you bought for your own snacks—whether or not they contain fiber—will be eaten by the crumb snatchers immediately before they consume the Oreos and Doritos you bought for their snacks.

Doritos

7.  If you decide to place your home for sale on the market, termites will swarm in protest, the roof will leak, the toilet will overflow, and the dishwasher will stop working.  You can apologize to your home for your desire to leave it, but it will continue to punish you for at least six months for even having the thought.

8.  The one show you set your DVR to record will be erased, leaving only 480 episodes of “Sons of Gun.”

9.  You will NEVER run into anyone you know after paying your stylist an arm and a leg to highlight, cut, and style your hair.  You are, however, guaranteed to run into your spouses ex when you go to the grocery store in sweats, no make-up, and with your hair in a frizzy bun on top of your head.  Furthermore, they will have just come from the sylist after having their hair highlighted, cut, and styled.

10.  You will not be able for the life of you to think up a 10th lesser known Murphy’s Law when you title your blog “10 Lesser Known Murphy’s Laws.”

And with today’s bonus post, I’ll leave you with a bonus quote:

“Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.  It just makes me cranky.”

© 2012 CThacker