September 17, 2007

Sexy Singers, But Can They Spell?

Bill never has much of an opinion on music, so the boys and I were astounded when we were on the way to church and he said, “Who is this singing? She has a cool voice.”

It was Fergie, singing “Big Girls Don’t Cry” for the umpteenth time.

“This song is okay,” I said, “but Gwen Stefani has a ballad out now called “Four In The Morning” that’s infinitely better. Want to hear it?” I reached for my iPod to dial it up.

“Hang on, I want to hear the rest of this,” he said.

I was peeved. Gwen Stefani is obviously much hipper, and I’ve loved her forever. According to my marital logic, if Bill’s not going to care about music, he’s obligated as my spouse to support my singers.

When we got home, I made the mistake of showing Bill a picture of Fergie, and for a moment he decided he liked her a lot better than Gwen. Of course, that’s because a man’s amygdala and hypothalamus are more strongly activated by visual stimuli than a woman’s, and Gwen sports mighty unfortunate hair in her picture.

Fergie

Gwen

But men are easily influenced by looks, and beauty fades. Then you’re left with the real person, and a close listen to each singer’s lyrics reveals that Gwen’s strength is Fergie’s downfall. We value spelling in the Glamore house, and Gwen makes the grade, while Fergie gets an F.

Fergie manages to spell “delicious” correctly in her wacky “Fergalicious.” In the same song, she misspells “tasty” as “T-A-S-T-E-Y” numerous times, and there’s no doubt this evens out the rhythm of the song, but it sets a bad example for today’s youth, like my boys, who misspelled it this way for a couple of weeks before I figured out what was going on.

In contrast, thanks to Gwen’s masterpiece “Hollaback Girl,” no one will ever misspell BANANAS again.

To hear Fergie’s blatant misspelling click here. (About two minutes in, if you can BEAR it!)

To listen to Gwen’s song about properly spelled fruit go here. (2:30ish)

Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: He’s No Dummy

September 16, 2007

Detoxify Noxious Athletic Shoes In 3 Easy Steps!*

Does your house smell like the lion’s cage at the zoo? Until last week, the rancid odor emanating from the boys’ rooms made my eyes water. I traced the cause to the boys’ shoes: specifically, their soccer cleats.

Obviously I’m no stranger to athletic shoes. What’s new to me is the combination of footwear and perspiration containing male hormones which are beginning to stir and work their magic. I knew the boys were going to start growing a centimeter a day, that one day the twins’ sweat would be not only moist, but also sour and that Finn would develop man-hair below his knees, but does Nature have to be so damn smelly?

Apparently so.

I’d tried other remedies: Odor-Eaters (liners and spray), baking soda and so forth, but the smell only grew stronger. I tried to mask the stench with Lysol, Glade and every room deodorizer and air freshener in the cleaning aisle, but I only succeeded in making the boys’ rooms look like a bathroom in a cheap Mexican restaurant.

I was carping about the smell at Finn’s soccer game, and one of the moms completely destroyed my fun by refusing to join in. Instead she suggested a solution, which was quite helpful in retrospect, but which sort of pissed me off at the time because I was PMS-ing.

Anyway, she didn’t provide specifics; she just said to try kitty litter, so here’s what I did.

Here’s a tray of funky soccer cleats and a woman wearing too much lipstick. (I blotted before I got to church.)

Step One: Purchase some powdery kitty litter. (My friend said not to get the clumpy kind. There was also an option that featured clay but I thought that would add to our problem)

Step 2: Pour Kitty Litter into shallow containers

Step 3: Embed cleats into kitty litter and go!

This only took moments, not counting the fifteen minutes I spent in the aisle at Publix trying to decide which kitty litter to buy.

If your family includes members which Janet Jackson describes as “Nasty Boys,” as mine does, you may have particularly noxious cleats which need an extra dose of detox. Not to worry! For you (and me) I created “The Baptist Total Immersion Solution.” Sound messy? Not if you follow this step:

Purchase cheap knee-hi’s at Publix. Hold your breath, and pull a knee-hi snugly over each cleat. (I don’t know why I’m smiling. I look like crap and the smell is making me dizzy.)

Completely immerse the stockinged cleats in the kitty litter, and let stew for three days or until the next athletic event.

I’m thrilled to make my world a little sweeter, one shoe at a time.

*CAUTION: I do not, and have never, owned a cat. However, I suspect that those of you who do might want to find another method for detoxifying your shoes, because I foresee complications if you adopt mine.

Hope this repays all of you who have helped this clueless soccer mom learn more about the game! It works so well for me that I’m posting it to Works For Me Wednesday- go check out the great ideas over there.

Since I first posted this, a reader suggested filling the knee-hi’s with the kitty litter and inserting them into the shoes.  This ought to be much less messy, and should work unless the smell has COMPLETELY PERMEATED your life, and the shoe.

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One year ago in The Tiny Kingdom: In Which I Declare Myself The Victor In The Breast Wars

September 12, 2007

Tuna Fish & Wacky Packs

The hip after-school snack at the Glamore house is a whole can of tuna, eaten straight from the can with a fork. It’s a vast improvement on sardines and crackers, but we’re going through garbage bags and Lysol at an alarming rate to keep the house from smelling like a fishmonger’s.

Three cans of tuna per day starts to add up, as well, so we’ve foregone Chicken of the Sea for a cheaper brand.

We were talking about the tuna and the need to reduce costs in this area over dinner the other night. It morphed into an in-depth discussion of tunas of yore.

“They used to advertise tuna fish all the time when we were growing up,” I said. “Like, ‘Sorry, Charlie. StarKist doesn’t want tunas with good taste, we want tunas that taste good.’”

“Yeah, and how about ‘Ask any mermaid, you happen to see,’” Bill sang, and then I joined in, “what’s the best tuna, Chicken of the Sea.”

Drew and Porter looked mildly amused.

“How many tuna commercials do y’all know?” Finn asked.

Bill and I looked at each other.

“Only those two,” he answered.

“Good,” Finn said.

“But remember the Wacky Package for the tuna? It was “Sicken of the Sea!” Bill shouted.

“Do you remember “Head and Boulders?” I asked. “And by the way, if you’re cool, you called them Wacky Packs.”

“No, honey, everyone calls them ‘Wacky Packages,’” Bill said. “Wacky Packs. That’s the craziest thing I ever heard of. But Head and Boulders was a good one.”

And then we were quiet. I was remembering the allure of a brand new set of Wacky Packs, but I couldn’t recall any more of the products. I’m pretty sure if I was still in my thirties I’d be able to recall at least one more, but my boys are sucking up my brain cells along with my energy.

“I’m all out,” I finally admitted.

“Me, too,” Bill confessed.

“Does that mean we can stop the Wacky Pack talk and have dessert?” Porter asked.

So we did, but the topic has been nagging at me. I want to hear from you all.

1) What commercials do you remember watching back in the days of shag carpeting?

2) Were you into Wacky Packs (or Packages)? Bill says the folks at this fine establishment are experts in the field. Let’s see how many Wacky Packs we can name in the comments (without Googling) before they notice the hits and put us all to shame on Wacky Pack trivia.

Let the reminiscing begin!

One year ago in the Tiny Kingdom: I Don’t Know Nothin’ Bout Birthin’ Babies

Frustrated Mom Needs Vocabulary Lesson

“You don’t have to murder it; you just have to hit it,” is one of the encouragements I yell to Finn during baseball season. My baseball repertoire is vast:

“Don’t watch the ball, just hit it and RUN!”
“Hey outfield, look alive!”
“Nice hit!”
“Way to hustle!”
“It’s coming to YOU, [name]!”
“Mow him down– he’s in the baseline!”

I don’t yell, “Go Finn Glamore, #23 on the field and #1 in my heart” anymore, because the last time I did Finn struck out and blamed it on me, and rightfully so.

Soccer has been hard to adjust to. Our team is new, so I have few opportunities to shout “Nice kick” or “nice pass” but when these rare events happen I do try to acknowledge them.

It’s when the ball is being kicked around in the middle of the field with no sense of purpose that I get doubly frustrated, first that the ball isn’t being taken down to the goal, and second that I can’t think of a nice way to tell Finn that kicking the ball once and then slowing to a walk doesn’t seem very effective. Intellectually I realize there’s no magnetic force field that repels our team away from the ball, but when you’re caught up in the game frenzy, that’s how it appears.

I’ve sat through a number of games where all the action takes place on the far end of the field, where our players desperately (well, some are desperate, and some are lackadaisical) try to keep the ball out of our goal. Watching a game of total defense makes me want to stick forks in my eyes.

So far I’ve come up with these shouts (all invented on the spur of the moment):

“Yo, we’re all sitting down here; how about bringing the ball to THIS end of the field, Bolts?”

“Hey– get up in him and get that ball away from him!”

“Don’t let that blue guy kick that ball!”

“Y’all keep that ball down here where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Finn, if you don’t run up to that guy and steal that ball I’m gonna FREAK OUT!”

None of the other parents are yelling anything like this, which makes me wonder if there are better, more soccer-ish phrases I could be using. Something that would result in increased aggressiveness, without actually shouting for blood.

I am hoping someone can help. Christian? Anyone?

Two years ago: Tackled By Football

September 10, 2007

I’m Making Eggs And I Don’t Mean Scrambled

One of Finn’s teachers had the nerve to assign Bill and me homework.  She sought information about Finn’s personality, his dreams, fears and passions.  Referring her to this website did not appear to be an option, and because I didn’t know the teacher, I couldn’t very well write “Finn is just like me, but with a penis” and leave it at that, although it would have been God’s honest truth.

All writing assignments tend to be funneled to me, but I made Bill sit with me one night and ponder our oldest son.  Bill was able to brainstorm for about 45 seconds until the twins’ game of bathtub battleship sloshed so much water onto the floor that it started dripping into the basement, at which point he ran upstairs to captain the bailing and toweling actions that followed.

The homework was due just after Finn’s three days of grounding.  His treatment of his brothers had improved only minimally.  Consequently, I wasn’t thinking of him fondly and generating a list of Finn’s positive attributes was a herculean task.   Eventually,  I wrote that he is social, musical, athletic and overly-confident.  I pointed out that he’s never had to sweat over his schoolwork before, and so I expect this year will be a challenge.

None of this made him sound likable, so I added that he can cook, make a mean cup of coffee, do laundry and perform other vital household chores.  I didn’t mention that sometimes he must be beaned in the head with a pair of Fruit of the Looms to accomplish this.

I finished up the worksheet:

Finn’s Dream: baseball player by day, drummer by night, with a hot chick on the side (Bill insisted on the last item)
Finn’s Fear:  zits, revocation of privileges
Finn’s passion: Auburn football, dancing

Finn read the sheet after Bill and I had tucked Porter in and Drew was snuggling in my bed reading.

“I’m not afraid of zits,” he said indignantly when he finished reading the sheet.  “I don’t even have any.  Y’all are the ones who always freak out about my skin.”

“There’s no ‘y’all’ in this.  It’s your mom,” Bill said.  “I don’t have any idea what all that stuff she wants you to spread on your face is for.  And she bought me all this funky lotion with sunscreen in it.”

“I realize I’m the only one worrying about everyone’s skin.  That’s why you don’t have any zits,” I told Finn.

“Mom, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you have Jupiter and Venus on your forehead.  I saw them this morning.”

“Honey, I’m making an egg,” I said tiredly.  I’d spent a lot of time spraying my hair to cover the pimples, but apparently I wasn’t concealing anything.

“No offense,” Finn persisted, “but are you working overtime on that egg?  Or maybe you’re making two?”

“That’s been known to happen,” Bill said.

“There will be no fertilizing tonight, or we’ll end up with MORE boys,” I whispered to Bill.

“I heard that and that’s gross,” Finn said.  “Almost as gross as those zits.  I’m going to wash my face in case they’re catching.”

Acne at forty (well, acne at any age) is frustrating.  You have to keep your hands off your skin and wait for the medicine and time to cure the problem.  Eventually clear skin returns, until the next bout of PMS.

Trying to cure a pre-teen of his know-it-all attitude appears to be  impossible.  You can give him space, you can restrict his activities, but in the end only time will (hopefully) turn him into a reasonable man.

And there’s no Clearasil to hurry the process along.