Call Me, Maybe

Guess who has a smart phone and doesn't know how to use it?

That's right, I am now the proud owner of a smarter-than-me phone. But I'm in good company. According to a recent study, 50% to 75% of people age 30 and older who have a smart phone don't really know how to use it (“A Recent Study,” June 2013, Center for Completely Fabricated Statistics).

Now I can make and receive calls any time, anyplace, get directions, check the weather, and research surrounding landmarks, restaurants and gas stations. All from the comfort of my phone.

In theory, that is.

The fact of the matter is that it would probably be quicker for me to make my call from home (we are one of the 5% of Americans, according to the CCFS, who still have a “land line”), check a map for directions, look out the window to see if it's raining, and just drive around cluelessly until I happen upon my destination.

I got along just fine with my plain old, slow, boring (but reliable) cell phone. But I've been plum 'et up with jealousy since the first time I saw someone access Accuweather on their phone. Watching my dear husband get directions on his phone turned me green with envy. Listening to the Princess snicker whenever I tried – and failed – to use her smart phone just about drove me insane.

But I stuck firm to my Luddite beliefs that a cell phone should be just that: a phone, not a hand held computer. Being able to make or receive a call in a car at will (within reason) was technological marvel enough! Accessing the internet from the passenger seat was just too much for a mere mortal to aspire to! Icarus, watch out for the sun!

In the end, I fell victim to creeping technology-itis.

Texting was my gateway tech-drug. Sending brief messages to the dear husband and our little angels made life so much easier. We could converse phrase by phrase (or word by word) as time permitted, not committing to long, meaningful conversations.

Then the Princess showed me how to access my email account on my old phone. I didn't care if it was almost all spam; suddenly I could receive ads for Viagra no matter where I was! I could surf the web, too, as long as I didn't actually need to read anything on the teeny-tiny screen.

Then there were the Doubting Thomases, whose disparagement only fueled my determination.

“You don't want a smart phone,” my darling husband said, “you'll just get frustrated when you can't get it to do what you want.”

“I had to show you how to work the phone you have,” my darling daughter said.

“If you had a smart phone, you could look up the answer – HAHAHAHAH,” said my darling son.

True, I worked very hard to cultivate an air of technological ineptitude. Perhaps I made myself out to be a little too technologically challenged. But why should I go to all the trouble to learn how to change my screen saver when someone else was there to do it for me? Why should I waste time trying to download the Kim Possible ring tone, when someone else volunteered to do it?

The division of labor in our house is pretty clear cut. If it involves technology someone else takes care of it. If it involves cooking, cleaning or other household chores, I take care of it.

But no more! The revolution is upon us! I am upsetting the balance of power.

With the Princess busy figuring out her own new phone, I took action. After struggling unsuccessfully to add my email account to my apps, I broke down and downloaded the manual for my phone – by myself (En Espaňole primero). I've always been able to read instruction, just too lazy to actually do it on more than a need to know basis. This time I had the need and I wanted to know.

So far I have conquered the email app, deleted and arranged icons, changed the screen saver, managed my ring tones, added and deleted contacts, sent and received texts and used the camera.

There's only one thing I haven't done yet:

 Made a phone call.

This Blog(ger) for Sale

I read another article today about how manufacturers are reaching out to “influential mommy bloggers.” This time Bloomberg News reports that Mattel was plying these IMBs with a brunch buffet in a “penthouse suite at Manhattan's Royalton Hotel,” complete with mimosas and bloody marys.

Hellooo.

What part of Sandwich MOM on Wry @ BLOGspot-dot-com do you people not get?

Just because I can't get my own family to do anything I tell them doesn't necessarily mean I am not influential. It's just that they can't be easily influenced. I like to think of them as independent thinkers.

According to this article Mattel was, basically, teaching these women how/why little boys like to play with cars because the Mattel representative said (get this) “Mom 'has never played with them.'” (meaning the cars, not the kids, I hope).

OK, so maybe I was a little overqualified to be in this test group. It would take a whooooole lot of mimosas and bloody mary's to get me to sit in a room full of women who never played with toy cars. Where did they find these women? How many rocks did they have to turn over to find even a single girl who didn't “understand why cars... and smashing and crashing are cool.”

On the other hand, if someone offered me bloody marys, mimosa, and brunch at a fancy-schmancy Manhattan hotel penthouse suite I'm pretty sure I could develop sudden onset amnesia. Hot Wheels? What are Hot Wheels?

Nope. Never heard of them.

Never played with them. Stepped on them. But never played with them.

Boy's toys are ucky.

Editors note: “Boy Toys” are another matter entirely, which brings me to my second gripe about this article: The accompanying photo showed some sweet, young, female thing (who really needed a bigger tank top) demonstrating a Hot Wheels track at the American International Toy Fair. If you really want to get Mom's attention, let a shirtless Channing Tatum hawk your wares. Of course, if you were smart enough to figure that out, you'd be smart enough to sign me up as one of your “influential mommy bloggers,” too.

But I digress.

My point is, I need to get me some of this product placement action.

I could do a fair and honest review of your product. Honest I could. And if an honest review isn't what you're looking for, well... we could still talk (I like my margaritas on the rocks – wink, wink).

I know my blogging schedule has been a bit... erratic, but really, I'm trapped in a vicious circle of your own making! If you would just slide some of those time saving (!), effort saving (!) and/or fun (!) miracle products my way, I wouldn't be spending so much time (!) and effort (!) on cooking/cleaning/entertaining/other chores and I would have more time to blog about your time saving (!), effort saving (!) and/or fun (!) miracle products.

It's a win-win situation.

I've even read about a couple blogs in which the blogger has Oprah-like giveaways of the products she has received and enjoyed (!) from the manufacturer. In my humble opinion, free giveaways are just a gimmick to buy (influence) your audience.

And I'm perfectly OK with that.

In fact, just to show how generous (influential) I can be I would like to promote a local business (I'm not opposed to receiving a few freebies, hint hint):

I'm willing to give away one free (isn't that the same as “give away”?) cupcake from Molly's Cupcakes in Iowa City to the first person who responds to this blog.

But hurry! Supplies are limited!

In fact... I think supplies are exhausted. But I could give you a slightly used Molly's Cupcake box.

Just give me a minute to wipe the frosting off the keyboard.

And if you are a representative of Molly's Cupcakes inquiring about product placement in this blog, think chocolate... and lots of it.

Sweating the Ugly (Christmas) Stuff

January 6, 2013. The 12^th day of Christmas for those who are keeping track. The end of the holiday season.

Christmas trees are migrating curbside, each night fewer and fewer lighting displays are lit, the “return only” lanes at the stores are coming down, New Year's resolutions are dropping like flies and Ugly Christmas Sweaters are being stowed away for the season.

Or burned.

But I don't think we could get that lucky. Most likely those tacky, gaudy, be-jeweled, jingle-belled, glitter-dusted and just plain or plaid ugly monstrosities are being laundered, folded and tucked away between the stockings and tree skirts to await another holiday season.

We bought the Princess's first official Ugly Christmas Sweater this year. “Official” as in we bought it specifically because we thought it was ugly, not “official” as in we bought it off the “Ugly Christmas Sweaters!” rack at Goodwill. In fact, I felt kind of bad when we bought it – brand new – at the discount store (which ends in “-Mart” but doesn't start with “Wal,” K?), because I was pretty sure I saw someone wearing it at a Christmas party the week before.

I should point out this sighting did not take place at an Ugly Christmas Sweater Party. Not a designated Ugly Sweater Party, anyway. But there does seem to be a certain age and sex demographic (60+, female) that is prone to wearing non-intentionally Ugly Christmas Sweaters. There is a fine line between festive and ugly, and attendees at nursing home Christmas parties tend to teeter along that line.

Spending perfectly good money on something the Princess has declared “ugly” goes against every bone in my penny-pinching body. I wasn't even swayed by the argument that “everyone else” had already bought their Ugly Christmas Sweater. The decision to buy the Princess her very own UCS came down to one thing:

I wanted to save myself from certain embarrassment.

The Princess had UCS on the brain, and every time she saw one she felt the need to point it out.

“That reminds me. I need to get an Ugly Christmas Sweater,” she would excitedly whisper. Since I usually replied “WHAT?” in a loud voice and immediately turned to look at the sweater, I figured It was only a matter of time before someone took offense.

I know what it's like to have someone think that your sweater (a sweater which you thought was an OK looking, maybe even a pretty cute sweater) is an Ugly Christmas Sweater, because last year the Princess picked out one of my favorite sweaters and asked if she could wear it for Ugly Christmas Sweater Day at school.

Ouch.

Thanks to the miracle of Facebook, I know I'm not the only mom who had that happen to her.

I know that it is impossible for the Princess and I – for any mom and their teenage daughter – to agree on the attractiveness of clothing.

Furthermore, I know that I have some Sweaters of Questionable Attractiveness. I even dug through my sweater pile to come up with a sweater we both thought was unattractive. I didn't think it was that ugly, but it was a gift and hey- what the heck, I didn't pick it out, so maybe it was a little bit on the not-cute side.

But the Princess's first choice – my favorite sweater – was most definitely NOT an Ugly Christmas Sweater. It's a subtle grey, black and dark red striped, knit sweater, with a Nordic ski-style, horizontal band of big snowflakes across the chest. There are no elves, reindeer, Santas, gingerbread men, trees, angels, bells, plaids, or glitter anywhere on it. None of the typical Ugly Christmas Sweater hallmarks.

It's not even a Christmas sweater, really. It's just a sweater. A sweater that I wear in the winter. Which is when Christmas happens to take place.

Not. An Ugly. Christmas. Sweater.

I was reminded of all this today because I wore that formerly-favorite, now of-Questionable-Attractiveness, sweater for the first time this winter.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, the sweater looked kind of... ugly. The knit is starting to pill from being washed and dried. It has shrunk in that weird way sweaters do, so that the sleeves are too short but the body too wide. And that horizontal band of snowflakes? Not helping the appearance of width.

I'm thinking it's time to wash it up and donate it to Goodwill.

Or maybe I'll just save us all the trouble and I'll pack it away for next year's Ugly Christmas Sweater parties.

Weathering My Moods

My Grandparents had a “Mood Barometer” hanging in their enclosed breezeway. It was a round, wooden plaque, about six inches across, decorated with cheerful, tole painted flowers. The names of several different moods were written around the outer rim and a little red arm fixed to the center could be rotated to point at any of the moods.

I don't remember if it had Grandma's name on it or not, but it was understood that the barometer showed her mood just as it was understood that the quarter affixed to the glass in the window of the door next to it showed Grandpa's sense of humor. He had won the quarter in a friendly bet, and glued it there as a constant reminder to his unlucky friend. The Mood Barometer may have been another example of his mischief, but given the longevity of their marriage, I doubt it.

By the time I came along, Grandma and Grandpa were in their late 60s (which isn't nearly as old now as it was then), and babysitting me was quite a change from their regular routine. After getting on Grandma's last nerve, I would head out to the garage to bother Grandpa.

As I passed through the breezeway I would usually stop and move the barometer hand to “Grumpy.” If Grandpa caught me he'd chuckle and say “Ohhhh, we can't leave it that way. That would make Mommy cross.” This only supported my assessment, but I would dutifully move the little red pointer back to “Happy” or “Loving,” as Grandpa suggested.

I thought of that barometer as I was driving in to town this morning.

The long, long list of things that I need to get done was running through my head, at odds with the limits of a 24-hour day. The more I thought about it, the bigger the black cloud of crabbiness surrounding me grew. I really should warn people when I'm this crabby, I thought. I need Grandma's Mood Barometer, or maybe I should just wear a button that says “Warning: Crabby.”

I imagined how my kids would react to this idea and started to laugh. The high pressure system moved out, crabby clouds parted and all murderous thoughts cleared. The arrow on my mood barometer swung to “Happy.”

When I picked up the Princess after school, I told her about my idea for the warning button. She didn't say anything.

“I figure you and the Little Prince would probably make me wear it all the time,” I laughed.

She didn't answer.

“Um, so, what do you think?” I asked.

After a long pause she looked at me, sighed, then turned her attention back to the road.

“I was thinking you should have it embroidered on all your shirts.”

I'm sensing a drop in barometric pressure.

Reporting from the Uncommon Cold Front

Officials from The University of Iowa, US Center for Disease Control and NASA confirmed today that an Iowa woman had been quarantined with an uncommon strain of the common cold.

“It's not like anything we've ever seen before,” Dr. Gus Undheit, UIHC, said. “Really. It's snot like nothing ever reported.”

The hallmark of this uncommon cold appears to be a particularly viscous strain of mucus. “It's like rubber cement right out of the bottle, but with more elasticity,” Undheit explained.

“And more slimey,” added CDC spokesperson Tia Shue. “It's just plain gross.”

Researchers have dubbed the new virus “Yo-yo Cold,” in light of the progression of symptoms and the stretchy nature of the mucus.

“It began as congestion in the left sinus cavity, advanced to irritation of the throat, and then lodged in the upper respiratory system,” Undheit recounted. “Just when we thought it was under control, it reversed direction, once again irritating the throat before withdrawing up into the right sinus cavity. It's a tenacious little booger.”

The mucus reportedly also displays enhanced tensile qualities in resisting the patient's efforts of blow it out via nasal extraction.

“The mucus seems to originate so deep in the nasal cavities, it has actually grabbed hold of and wrapped itself around the patient's brain stem,” Undheit says. “Any attempts to remove it by force – by blowing her nose – causes the mucus to respond like a recoil starter on a lawn mower. As the lead end of the mucus advances out the nostrils, the main stream of mucus uncoils, spinning the brain at approximately 33 1/3 RPM. Just when we think we have a tissue full – fwoop! A goodly portion snaps back into the sinus cavity, slapping the brain stem silly. Obviously she becomes quite light headed and dizzy.”

“It's really weird, man,” a lab assistant reported on condition of anonymity and the promise of an extra-large box of lotion tissues and a warm blanky. “I listened to a recording of the blow played backwards, and I heard a voice saying 'the walrus is Paul'.”

It was the extreme elasticity of the mucus that captured the attention of NASA officials. In light of recent budget cuts, researchers for the space program have been struggling to find low-cost alternatives to the conventional solid fuel rocket engines used for launches. Unconfirmed rumors suggest researchers plan to use the mucus to create a giant sling shot.

“Currently she's producing more than enough mucus to create a new sling shot every day,” said Robert Band, who claims to be a NASA spokesperson. “We have high expectorantations for Operation Sling Snot.” Other NASA officials claim not to know Band.

Government officials would neither confirm nor deny reports that the virus is being considered for use as a low-tech, non-lethal biological weapon.

“It would certainly be an effective way to incapacitate the enemy,” General N. Fluenza said. “It would be really easy to track infected enemy combatants by their tissue trail, too. But this illness makes the affected very crabby, and a crabby enemy is an unstable enemy. And our enemies are unstable enough as it is.”

Senators Conrad Gestion and Dray Nage, (I; CO, FL) unrecognized members of the Senate Committee on Ethics issued the following joint statement on the subject:

“Mild as it may be, knowingly infecting a sentient being with this communicable contagion would be an unspeakable act of cruelty, bringing to mind Nazi experiments on par with the horror of the small pox epidemic unseen since the proliferation of Disco and home perms. In short, at this pivotal point in mans' epic struggle for humanity, clarity and freedom from personal responsibility, it would be irresponsible and reprehensible to introduce this particular weapon in the ongoing, unending and literal, Cold War.”

Life's A Ditch

Things I Learned From Putting My Car In The Ditch This Morning:

1. A light skiff of snow on top of ice may make the roads may be a bit slippery. Duh.

2. Anti-lock brakes do not guarantee an anti-slide car.

3. Swearing will not make your tires suddenly gain traction. It doesn't matter if you are slowly sliding toward the back end of someone's van, slowly sliding the passenger-side tires of your car into the ditch, or slowly trying to drive out of the half-ditch position (in low gear). Swearing will not change any of this. No matter how creative it is. Trust me.

4. On the other hand, swearing as you walk 0.3 miles into a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind will keep you warm. (Thank you, kind Samaritan for giving me a ride the rest of the way home!)

5. It's not enough to merely think "Gee, I really need to make sure I put my cell phone in my purse before I leave." You need to actually put your cell phone into your purse.

6. Mom was right: you should always take along a hat, gloves and boots when driving in winter. Even if you are only going a mile and a half into town. Not even going to speculate on the clean underwear advice.

7. Wow. I am really out of shape.

8. It's much easier to walk 0.8 miles with a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind at your back, as you swear and stomp back to meet the tow truck.

9. Wow. I am really out of shape. Wheeze, gasp, wheeze.

10. Swearing and stomping 0.8 miles with a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind at your back will give you time to calm down (a little) and put things into perspective. You will think deep thoughts such as: "I would have never know this was a 0.8 mile walk if it weren't for Googlemaps directions and navigational systems"; "Who knew pheasants made that funny sound when they fly"; "Whenever I vow to stick to a schedule and be less flexible crap like this happens"; And, "Dang, I could have made an easy buck if I'd brought a trash bag with me to collect cans".

11. The air is really, really fresh and invigorating when driven by a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind.

12. I may have to stop using the cold weather as an excuse not to exercise. Wearing snow boots, snow pants, a sweat shirt, coat, mittens, scarf, and a mad bomber-style hat -- and swearing -- will keep you surprisingly warm.

13. There is a good reason why I give up swearing for Lent. Every friggin' year.

14. If you put your car in the ditch before the blizzard hits, the tow truck response time is really quick!

15. Someone in the legal department at tow truck headquarters has a good sense of humor. I know this because the waiver I signed said "I acknowledge that I have put my vehicle in a situation not intended by the manufacturer." Ya think?

16. Seeing that the fateful, slippery intersection has been freshly sanded three hours after you've been pulled out of the ditch will not make you feel any better.

16. Neither will reading your horoscope three and a half hours after being pulled out of the ditch, only to find the stars recommend (honest!) "It's a good time to stay home."

Now they tell me.

Just Another Service Moms Offer

Dear Princess,

I know that I have annoyed you. Yes, despite your best efforts to hide your feelings this morning as you stomped down the stairs, then turned to glare at me before slamming the door, I picked up a subtle vibe of unhappiness.

By the way, the foul cloud of doom that followed you as you drug your backpack to the drive way left scorch marks across the lawn. A skull and crossbones is permanently etched in brimstone where you stood and grumbled while waiting for the bus. I can only hope the heat of your ire didn't permanently weld the doors of the bus shut.

I know you think I'm being unreasonable. You can not understand why (yet again!) I have not given in to the argument that "everyone else gets to." Or its corollary, "no one else has to." Or the "no one else's mom does that" argument. Or the "that's so unfair" argument. You have yet to play the "I hate you" trump card (out loud), but let me advise you, that won't work either.

I annoy you because I love you. There are spoiled-rotten children everywhere who would love to have a Mom that annoys them. No, I don't have any proof of that, but my "Mom-sense" tingles whenever I see a pack of teens roaming the mall texting the person walking next to them because they can't carry on a conversation with ear buds in and the volume turned up so loud I can hear it over the music pouring out of Abercrombie and Fitch. Sure, they're all giggles and smiles on the outside, but inside they are crying out for a Mom Who Says No.

I took the full series of "Annoying Mom" classes at Mom School: "Annoying Mom 101," "How to Annoy Simply by Breathing," "Advanced Annoyance Techniques," and "Annoying Moms in History" (George Washington's mom annoyed him, and look how well he turned out! On the other hand, the vast array of current pop culture "celebrities" is evidence of a decline in the ranks of Annoying Mothers.)

I graduated at the top of my class. SummAnnoy Cum Laude. The Queen Mother, an Annoying Mom herself, was so proud. We come from a long line of Annoying Moms. It's that strong German heritage -- big butts and Annoying Moms.

All those tales you've told me of other people who have "lost this expensive, electronic gadget," "broken that expensive, electronic gadget," "had such and such expensive, electronic gadget taken away," have put me on High Annoyance Alert. I never got to take even a single expensive, electronic gadget to school. Granted, that was because the carrier pigeons weren't housebroken and the console stereo didn't have wheels.

Some day you'll thank me.

No, not really.

That's just something they taught me to say in "Annoying Mom 101."

Some day you will forget about this. Yes, really. Of course, it will be only because I will have moved on to bigger and better ways to annoy you.

But I hope you will remember I only annoy you because I want you to grow up to be responsible and well adjusted, without having to mortgage the house or sell your little brother to help pay for repairs and replacement plans.

And because I love you.

What could be more annoying than that?