Today I read a shopping guide on what hot, new cellphone to buy your child in the event you can't decide which one will make you the best parent of the year by granting your child bragging rights and thus making him/her THE most popular kid in school.
Some are easy-function phones; with only three buttons: call Mom, Dad or 911. Or you can flip through 20 contacts that are parent-entered and there is no number pad. Not so bad...until I started reading the "super-fun, wildly entertaining" option for preschoolers.
These phones hold up to 500 mp3s, games galore, and if that's not enough kids, you can make your parents go out and buy a microSD card to put even MORE useless crap into your phone so you have something to do while you're away from your XBox instead of things like reading, math and general common sense!
But wait, there's more!!!
How about a phone that comes in neon colors, does everything but your homework for you, has a wicked cool slide out QWERTY pad and unlimited text, calls all for an "amazingly low price" of $65 a month??? The price of this phone? Only $249!
ARE YOU KIDDING ME???
Ahem...I mean....I have a thought or two on this subject. This is that part I warned you about in my first blog that I have opinions, and if you don't like it, well, that'd be your opinion.
First off, I realize we're living in different times than when we were kids. I never fully understood that concept until I started coming of age, having my own child and watching my three teenage sisters growing up and becoming socially interactive. I thought it was archaic to hear my mother drone on and on about how they used to ride bikes until dark, be gone all hours of the day, and lemonade stands made the summer money to buy baseball cards and Barbie dolls. Fast forward twenty years, and while the children of today post half naked pictures of themselves on Facebook, call each other at all hours of the night for the teenage drama that just "cannot, like, totally wait", I'm finding myself scrunching up my face, grumbling things under my breath such as "this world's going to hell in a hand basket" and "these damn kids don't know how good they got it", and a personal favorite of mine, "this is our future presidents, senators and doctors? Pass."
Don't get me wrong, we called our friends at midnight a time or two. It was in a closet or kitchen pantry, with the phone muffled and the fear of God in our hearts praying our parents wouldn't hear us, because they'd kick our asses. Another reason it didn't happen so often, because everyone had that one dumbass friend who had their own phone line in their room and we thought they were hella cool and our parents were gestapo, until they were stupid enough to call at 11:03pm and you, without your own in-room phone, cringed and waited for the sleep-torn blur and the rage of words that were about to be bellowed from the master bedroom.
"He...hell- helloo? What the- who the hell IS this? Do you have any idea what time it is? Where the hell are your parents? Do they know you relish in calling perfectly peaceful, sleeping households awake in the middle of the night? No, (your name) CAN'T come to the phone, you moron! If you ever call back here this late again I'm going to find where you sleep and make sure your parents can't recognize you!" -SLAM-....then the hushed, still aggravated complaint to the respective spouse who managed to halfway sleep through that, "who the hell are these people? Don't they have parents?" That's when they were kind (i.e. too tired) and waited until morning to yell at you for someone else calling. Most of the time it didn't wait, and we were snatched from our beds with the interrogation, "Who is so & so? Do they own a CLOCK? Where do you meet these people? That idiot better never call here that late again! If they do, you're grounded! No, you cannot call them to tell them that!!"
Here's the deal: we didn't have cellphones as kids. Well, we did, but they were freaking ridiculous expensive and they were all grey brick or flip phones that weighed a 1/4lb at least. Big red digital readout numbers and not even caller id. And you paid per minute. You got it after high school when you could pay for it. Your car had to be running in order to charge it. Overnight. Before that, there was the pager. A little box you paid $6 a month for only to pay to call the person back who was paging you. And if it was your mom, it always had a "911" behind it, and running to a payphone to call collect to tell her you were fine was perfectly acceptable, socially.
We didn't have iPods. We had walkmans. Then, if you were REALLY good, Santa brought you a Discman. Even better if it had ESP. You got to hold it up in the air for every bump like you're Garson at Chez Mariebleh so it wouldn't scratch the hell out of your Mariah Carey Christmas CD, because that was the only one you had.
We didn't have Facebook. We had yearbooks and notes. We had the luxury of ripping that crap up when someone tried to tell your crush how hot you were for them. And we had to wait four periods to tell them anyway. Half of teenage drama these days is instant gratification and 400 "likes". Hell, I'm going to be 30 next month. Half my drama these days is commenting on some stupid thing someone said on facebook and having to worry about everyone's feelings. I mean honestly..."de-friending" someone was so much easier back in the day. You sent your closest friend to tell their closest friend that you were mad at them...then you switched lunch tables for a week. Then finally the rumor mill caught on. Then there were about twenty different versions of what went down and who heard what. I mean, it took time, but eventually the point got across. Now they instantly get all up in your face and ask what they did wrong...and then they message again if you don't answer....ehhhhhh.
Kids don't need cellphones until they can work and afford to buy one. I have yet to meet a CHILD who NEEDS a smartphone. Half the stuff on my smartphone I barely need. The day I spend $249 on a phone for a child is the day he/she is moving out- because they graduated freaking college with an MBA and are about to pay off my mortgage. Little One won't be getting a cellphone until his burger flipping teenage job pays for it. I as the oldest have lived through three teenage sisters. If they haven't completely trashed their phones within a month of owning them, they've made my parents broke over the texting and phone bills. Not one of them has a real job yet. Insane. If you need a GPS device to track what your child is doing, you aren't being a parent. Don't worry about your kid hating you for it. If you're worried about if your kid still "likes" you, you're not being a parent. A ten year old can live through the day without playing Angry Birds for once.
As my rant about a major factor in the decline of society as we know it dwindles down, I start realizing that I have officially crossed over to adulthood. "In my day" starts most of my thoughts when trying to explain the differences between me and my sisters. Our time was different too, it was a treat to walk down the block to the hot dog stand while my mother sat in the front yard watching us. Sometimes, we couldn't come to the phone because it was dinnertime. And that was okay. Sometimes, a call to a friend's parents struck fear in our hearts if we were doing something bad; or, it made us roll our eyes because they were making sure where we were spending the night wasn't a meth lab or an underground child labor ring. Sometimes, Mom would drive down the street because we were dawdling so badly, just to make sure we hadn't been stolen. It wasn't an invasion of privacy. It wasn't "ruining my life". It wasn't overbearing. It was being a responsible parent.
I still call my mom when I get home late and the husband is working. I still call my step-mom when I'm driving around to clients in her area so she knows I'm safe. Thankfully, neither one tells my friends I can't come to the phone because I'm going to the bathroom anymore. Because I'm a big girl...or I'm already on the phone with them in the bathroom. Don't judge. You do it too.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
What's mine is yours...
When two people love each other, they get married.
In this day and age, they move in together. Let's not pretend, and come on girls, I think you have my back when I say, at least on our end, it's a test to see if we can live with the deep, dark, slovenly secrets you menfolk have behind closed doors beyond Axe-ing yourself from head to toe, smelling your laundry that is cataloged in a complex caste system of varying levels of "clean", throwing on the crumply Level-4 shirt (that's the "I can scam one more day out of this shirt before it's heinous, but it looks clean" level) and jumping in the car to take us for another nice night out at Applebee's. But that's the beauty of this crazy world. You guys think you're so damn suave, and all along we know you do that just to impress us - and that is why we love you guys in the first place.
Move-in day: your boxes, his boxes, it's all so new and wonderful. Books are mingled on a shelf. Mismatched kitchen items, his sheets and yours folded together in the linen closet, the first trip to the grocery store to pick up the essentials, including his favorite flavor of juice and the only brand of chips you buy; it's so enlightening to see this little peek into each other that you've never noticed before. It's a great symphony composed of you and him, and it meshes together so perfectly, because it's you. Only now, you = "us".
Cohabitation is achieved. It's been a few weeks, and you have subliminally established the little preferences that you both require. Your loofah belongs hanging from the tub faucet, not plopped on the toilet lid when he jumps in the shower because it gets in the way. He folds his pants and underwear inwards, then in half, not rolled up and perfectly lined in a drawer. The glasses get put away mouth down and dry, and are not simply rinsed out so they can be used anew. His xbox games do not need dusting, alphabetizing or feng shui. He has made peace with the fact that you insist the bed is made nicely every night, and you have resolved that he will perpetually stick his feet out from under the covers all night. He has to handle the tampons, birth control pills and the occasional hanging wet bra fresh out of the wash. You have to deal with fast food cups all over the computer desk, his socks just missing the hamper, and the fact that he will always plop his keys on the dining room table for fear of losing them. Welcome to compromise. You are officially sharing space.
By now, a year has passed. A renewed lease. Things are comfortable. At this point you may even be married. It doesn't seem different, but there's a piece of paper in the filing cabinet and it is "official". The mismatched plates have been replaced by the registered stoneware, with matching tumblers and silverware. The sheets that were folded together in a color scheme chaos are saved for late night crashers and the couch. Now a lovely matching bedding set is on the bed, along with matching curtains and even a nice little art piece above the bed. The comic books are in storage, as is your high school box, you guys are grown ups. The xbox is now a nice date night at home with a bottle of wine and a bowl of popcorn because you're saving up to buy a house and going out to the bars happens less and less.
Then you buy that first house. And it's ALL YOURS! You paint it, hang the drapes, decorate, place scented candles and start getting that second bedroom to look less like an office and more like a nursery. By now you two have found your harmonious sense of collaborative style, when people come to visit they see your house as a definition of the two of you. The meshing of two lives is complete. Life is good, you are into your routines, you're used to him clipping his nails in bed, and he is used to you farting in your sleep and not remembering. It all stops grossing you both out. And long, long ago, you both stopped running every water source in the bathroom to poop. Now, you're having normal conversations about bills and the Bears game while one is shouting from the bathroom. Every once in a while, you step back and look, and ask yourself, how did it all come together so easily?
Fast forward a few years. Now when you try to take a step back, you can barely visualize those two strangers who first moved in together, let alone life without the magnificent child(ren) you have made; little replications of the two of you, that no one can ever separate. You're a little tired, you have no idea what "me-time" is, but you wouldn't trade anything for the world.
Then it happens.
I'm not sure where in the story it happens, but somewhere....something just...happens.
You walk into the bathroom. Another Monday morning and you're weaving slowly towards the shower in a haze. The little one already asks if he can go to McDonald's that day, you want nothing but coffee, and the husband is already out of the shower, shaving. Then you see it.
He has your toothbrush in his mouth.
"What the hell is that about?"
"What?"
"That's my toothbrush. In. Your. Mouth."
He looks in the mirror, puzzled. He looks back at you.
"So?"
"That's disgusting."
"Honey, if that's the worst bodily fluid we've exchanged-"
That's when you snap. And not in the bad way. You realize that this "me-time" thing isn't such a bad idea after all.
"It's MY goddamned toothbrush. Can't I have ANYTHING TO MYSELF????"
He is bewildered.
This is when you start thinking of all the things you have shared in this blissful sanctuary of commitment. Your white socks...blotted black in the heels because he stuffed them into his combat boots the day he realized all his socks were in the laundry. Even the pink striped ones you bought specifically to hinder this behavior. The one box of granola bars-the chewy chocolate covered ones you bought just for yourself - that disappeared and you thought you forgot them at the store- until the box showed up in the cabinet - empty. You feel the rage coming on. After all the dishes, laundry, checkbook balancing, diaper changing, vacuuming. This is what I wake up to? I can't even have my own toothbrush??? How does someone LOSE a toothbrush???
Tossing it into the garbage and unwrapping a new one, a montage of all the things that you do that go unnoticed, unacknowledged, unappreciated plays out. You brush your teeth and get on with your day, a little surlier than planned.
While at work he surprises you with flowers and takes you out to lunch for upsetting you. Upon noticing his arrival, you pause your iPod and remove your earbuds-HIS earbuds that he let you borrow because you dropped yours in tomato soup and ruined them. You smile, feel like a jerk, then put on your hoodie- HIS hoodie, because he gave it to you this morning due to the unusual chill in the air while you were ranting about not finding yours. And the fact that it smells like him makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And yet this man is still smiling at you. Still wakes up next to you after 8 years of marriage, all the loops and drops and turns it has taken, and looks into your crusty eyes...right in range of your nasty morning breath; and smiles. He still tells you every morning how beautiful you look when you sleep.
It makes you realize all the ruined clothes from baby spit up, all the socks tarnished, the treats being eaten, the little inconveniences you can't stand when in your little rage are worth it.
It makes you realize: he's the only guy on Earth you'd ever share your toothbrush with.
In this day and age, they move in together. Let's not pretend, and come on girls, I think you have my back when I say, at least on our end, it's a test to see if we can live with the deep, dark, slovenly secrets you menfolk have behind closed doors beyond Axe-ing yourself from head to toe, smelling your laundry that is cataloged in a complex caste system of varying levels of "clean", throwing on the crumply Level-4 shirt (that's the "I can scam one more day out of this shirt before it's heinous, but it looks clean" level) and jumping in the car to take us for another nice night out at Applebee's. But that's the beauty of this crazy world. You guys think you're so damn suave, and all along we know you do that just to impress us - and that is why we love you guys in the first place.
Move-in day: your boxes, his boxes, it's all so new and wonderful. Books are mingled on a shelf. Mismatched kitchen items, his sheets and yours folded together in the linen closet, the first trip to the grocery store to pick up the essentials, including his favorite flavor of juice and the only brand of chips you buy; it's so enlightening to see this little peek into each other that you've never noticed before. It's a great symphony composed of you and him, and it meshes together so perfectly, because it's you. Only now, you = "us".
Cohabitation is achieved. It's been a few weeks, and you have subliminally established the little preferences that you both require. Your loofah belongs hanging from the tub faucet, not plopped on the toilet lid when he jumps in the shower because it gets in the way. He folds his pants and underwear inwards, then in half, not rolled up and perfectly lined in a drawer. The glasses get put away mouth down and dry, and are not simply rinsed out so they can be used anew. His xbox games do not need dusting, alphabetizing or feng shui. He has made peace with the fact that you insist the bed is made nicely every night, and you have resolved that he will perpetually stick his feet out from under the covers all night. He has to handle the tampons, birth control pills and the occasional hanging wet bra fresh out of the wash. You have to deal with fast food cups all over the computer desk, his socks just missing the hamper, and the fact that he will always plop his keys on the dining room table for fear of losing them. Welcome to compromise. You are officially sharing space.
By now, a year has passed. A renewed lease. Things are comfortable. At this point you may even be married. It doesn't seem different, but there's a piece of paper in the filing cabinet and it is "official". The mismatched plates have been replaced by the registered stoneware, with matching tumblers and silverware. The sheets that were folded together in a color scheme chaos are saved for late night crashers and the couch. Now a lovely matching bedding set is on the bed, along with matching curtains and even a nice little art piece above the bed. The comic books are in storage, as is your high school box, you guys are grown ups. The xbox is now a nice date night at home with a bottle of wine and a bowl of popcorn because you're saving up to buy a house and going out to the bars happens less and less.
Then you buy that first house. And it's ALL YOURS! You paint it, hang the drapes, decorate, place scented candles and start getting that second bedroom to look less like an office and more like a nursery. By now you two have found your harmonious sense of collaborative style, when people come to visit they see your house as a definition of the two of you. The meshing of two lives is complete. Life is good, you are into your routines, you're used to him clipping his nails in bed, and he is used to you farting in your sleep and not remembering. It all stops grossing you both out. And long, long ago, you both stopped running every water source in the bathroom to poop. Now, you're having normal conversations about bills and the Bears game while one is shouting from the bathroom. Every once in a while, you step back and look, and ask yourself, how did it all come together so easily?
Fast forward a few years. Now when you try to take a step back, you can barely visualize those two strangers who first moved in together, let alone life without the magnificent child(ren) you have made; little replications of the two of you, that no one can ever separate. You're a little tired, you have no idea what "me-time" is, but you wouldn't trade anything for the world.
Then it happens.
I'm not sure where in the story it happens, but somewhere....something just...happens.
You walk into the bathroom. Another Monday morning and you're weaving slowly towards the shower in a haze. The little one already asks if he can go to McDonald's that day, you want nothing but coffee, and the husband is already out of the shower, shaving. Then you see it.
He has your toothbrush in his mouth.
"What the hell is that about?"
"What?"
"That's my toothbrush. In. Your. Mouth."
He looks in the mirror, puzzled. He looks back at you.
"So?"
"That's disgusting."
"Honey, if that's the worst bodily fluid we've exchanged-"
That's when you snap. And not in the bad way. You realize that this "me-time" thing isn't such a bad idea after all.
"It's MY goddamned toothbrush. Can't I have ANYTHING TO MYSELF????"
He is bewildered.
This is when you start thinking of all the things you have shared in this blissful sanctuary of commitment. Your white socks...blotted black in the heels because he stuffed them into his combat boots the day he realized all his socks were in the laundry. Even the pink striped ones you bought specifically to hinder this behavior. The one box of granola bars-the chewy chocolate covered ones you bought just for yourself - that disappeared and you thought you forgot them at the store- until the box showed up in the cabinet - empty. You feel the rage coming on. After all the dishes, laundry, checkbook balancing, diaper changing, vacuuming. This is what I wake up to? I can't even have my own toothbrush??? How does someone LOSE a toothbrush???
Tossing it into the garbage and unwrapping a new one, a montage of all the things that you do that go unnoticed, unacknowledged, unappreciated plays out. You brush your teeth and get on with your day, a little surlier than planned.
While at work he surprises you with flowers and takes you out to lunch for upsetting you. Upon noticing his arrival, you pause your iPod and remove your earbuds-HIS earbuds that he let you borrow because you dropped yours in tomato soup and ruined them. You smile, feel like a jerk, then put on your hoodie- HIS hoodie, because he gave it to you this morning due to the unusual chill in the air while you were ranting about not finding yours. And the fact that it smells like him makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And yet this man is still smiling at you. Still wakes up next to you after 8 years of marriage, all the loops and drops and turns it has taken, and looks into your crusty eyes...right in range of your nasty morning breath; and smiles. He still tells you every morning how beautiful you look when you sleep.
It makes you realize all the ruined clothes from baby spit up, all the socks tarnished, the treats being eaten, the little inconveniences you can't stand when in your little rage are worth it.
It makes you realize: he's the only guy on Earth you'd ever share your toothbrush with.
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