A Primer For Minecraft Parents

Do you have a child between the ages of seven and “I-stopped-counting-after-the-third”? Did you also make the huge mistake of giving them access to electricity? Do you provide opportunities for that child to have social contact with other human life forms? Do they shout random terms like “Butter!” and “Creeper Lava Diamond Pig!” even before you give him a dose of Benadryl on the drive to Gramma’s house? If you answered “yes,” to any of these questions then it is likely you know my pain. My gigantic, cubic, vertigo-inducing pain known as Minecraft Mania, or “MM” for short.

Note: If your child has not yet asked you to download this game, you should close this window, find your family’s passports, and make immediate plans to relocate to North Korea where internet access is sketchy at best. WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?

MM has been going on at our house for some time. I first became alarmed when several friends inquired as to the prognosis of my child’s “medical issue.” I was confused until I realized that every time they saw him, he appeared to be attached to the wall by an electrical device charging plug, thus giving them the idea that he was on dialysis of some sort. The truth is that he lives with constant fear of a dead iPod, because something – something – Zombie – Pigman – Diamond – Sword – BUTTER!

My son awaits Minecraft updates with more anticipation than he does Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Because those guys? Meh. Board games and chocolate eggs have nothing on TNT and crafting tables. My nine year-old cannot be trusted to flush a toilet, but he can build a city better than a Mayan aristocrat, and that’s what will matter instead of pesky social graces when trying to secure a life partner.

We have a problem with MM you guys, and it’s sweeping the continent. It’s not even the game itself that forms the crux of the issue. I’m pretty strict with my kids about the games they can play and in researching Minecraft I’ve come to understand that it can be a great learning tool. Players get to be creative and tech-savvy, and they can build friendships with unseen online players in damp basements all over the world.  Minecraft also allows parents to have alone time to get dinner made, or a pile of laundry folded, or have sex with a partner who doesn’t require batteries. Nope; the real problem is this, and it’s approaching our house faster than my neighbours with a “cut your lawn” petition:

There are only so many synonyms for “cool” and if my calculations are correct, I’m due to run out at 7:16pm on June 28, 2013. Which, as the cruel fates would have it – is the last day of school here. I cannot spend eight weeks of summer showing continual awe over TNT and lava explosions without compromising my already fragile mental state.

What does one say to comment on apparent carnage at a ski lodge? Is it “well done”? or perhaps “Super”?  Should I call a child psychologist?

Let’s help each other. Here’s a list I’ve compiled in case you’ve exhausted adjectives feigning interest in Minecraft:

• awesome
• neat
• wow
• nice
• impressive (non-beginner parents only, please)
• rad
• interesting
• hmmmm
• mmmmmm
• mmmmmm-hmmmm
• FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST I SWEAR TO YOUR HOLY ENTITY OF CHOICE YOU BETTER GET THAT IPOD OUTTA MY FACE OR I WILL RUN IT OVER WITH THE CAR WHILE YOU WATCH AND I WILL LAUGH DOING IT

Sometimes you can get away with using a term more than once if you alter the inflection. (But be careful; I went too far turning “cool” into the three syllable “kewwwwll” and lost street cred with my son’s Minecraft gang. Related: Guess who found pee all over her new bathroom mat?) I will also warn you against pulling any smart-ass moves like using words that would appear in a freshman college paper. Words like “fascinating,” “riveting” and “enthralling” are best left to the pros, lest any sarcasm seep through. You can try “nifty” and “cats-pajamas, ole chap!” but only if you take blood pressure medication and could pick Slim Whitman out of a line-up.

I don’t ask for help often, but I am calling in all favours now. Hit me up with your terms and coping strategies parents, because if you’ve got a Minecraft kid, I know you’ve got some tricks up your sleeve (and also probably some tear-soaked tissues.)

Into the mouths of babes

A lot of kids are fussy eaters, and I know many parents can commiserate with my dinner time woes. But I’ve given up fighting because it was turning relaxed mealtimes into stressful encounters, and I’m using all my energy preparing meals which meet some specific and very pointed culinary preferences. You know those kids who won’t eat a food if it touches another food, or who refuse to try something that originated from a seed at one point in it’s life cycle? My kids are nothing like that. They’re WORSE.

 

Let me make you understand the severity of what I’m dealing with here, because my problem may not be quite what you’re expecting. When the thick department store catalogue arrives each holiday season, most kids turn to the back where the toy pages are. My kids go to the kitchen section and start arguing over who’s asking Santa for the pasta roller and which one of them deserves the Henkel knives. We rarely participate in hot lunch days at school, because the order for for “Pizza Day”  they didn’t include an artisan crust, anchovy and black olive option. It’s like the school hates kids.

 

These kids are serious about their food.

 

I don’t encourage it. I have remarkable few preferences myself – primarily that the food arrive hot, and (preferably) dead. I’d be happy – delighted even – to prepare hotdogs or chicken fingers once or twice a week. I could use the break.They’re still children however, and love junk food as much and maybe more than the next person, but they take it up a notch when it comes to quality. My daughter could pick a Lindt from a line-up of Cadbury’s with her tongue tied behind her back, and when my son was taken out for “treat” lunch with a friend and his mother, he wouldn’t touch the pogo stick or french fries, opting instead to eat everyone’s tomato and soggy romaine garnish.

 

Their teachers request that snacks come primarily from the fruit, vegetable or protein food groups. This helps people avoid some popular allergens and also encourages kids to eat a healthier mini-meal twice a day. My son was almost granted an exception to that rule when he insisted on bringing tuna with roast garlic olive oil marinated tomatoes for his snack every day. His kindergarten classroom may have smelled like an Italian restaurant, but those kids were safe from vampires.

 

At any given time my refrigerator holds cold poached salmon, pickled white asparagus, and 6 year-old cheddar. None of it is mine. My daughter pores over imported food brochures from the European deli like other girls admire “Teen Vogue” magazine, and my son requested a Crème Brule torch for his fifth birthday. I blame it on their Italian heritage because their Nona can create a Cordon Bleu worthy meal using nothing more than salt and pepper and an ancient pan she brought to the new country. She’s spoiled their taste buds and now I’m the one who’s paying for it. While I was attempting to dull their gustatory senses with tasteless canned vegetables and rubbery frozen waffles, she was undoing all my hard work with salads so fresh the rain still clung to them.

A few nights ago I put what I thought was nice pork roast on the table. My daughter took a bite and did all she could not to gag on it.

 

“What did you marinate this in? It’s horrible!” she asked.

“What? Nothing. I just cooked it in a bit of apple cider in the crock pot.”

“Apple cider? A CROCK POT?” she scoffed. “This thing…” she poked it with her fork…”this thing deserves a nice blueberry port glaze.” She shook her head.

“Yeah, and would it have killed you to give it a toasted pistachio crust?” my son added, heaping injury upon already bruised culinary ego.

 

I apologized and offered to make them some macaroni and cheese.

“Fine,” they conceded. “But could you at least add some creamy French brie like Nona does?”

“Feed me, woman!”

73 Things My 14 Year-Old Daughter Thinks Are Bull$hit

I have a 14 year-old daughter. I am going to pause here for dramatic effect, and although I know you can’t see me, take this time to visualize me hanging my head and practicing deep breathing techniques. She’s a great kid (I have to say that, but she is really…) and while she doesn’t do anything “bad” in the way I did when I was her age, she. is. exhausting. FULL STOP.

Teenage girls aren’t exhausting in the same way nine year-old boys are exhausting. Nine year-old boys may require a parent to have stealth, cunning, and an unlimited grocery budget, but fourteen year-old girls require you to have a sympathetic friend with a similarly aged child who gets in her car when you text “ERMAHGERD LIQR STORE.”

To my 14 year-old daughter, many, many things all of the things are bullshit. This girl has an alarmingly low tolerance for bullshit of any kind,and while I understand that this trait will serve her well in her adult life, it does make living peacefully with her nearly impossible. And as you can see here, you may be best serve to avoid her on particularly grouchy days. Especially if you’re a sexist jogger with hairy knuckles who can’t divide fractions and enjoys guacamole. So here you go: (Note: I complied this list according to her comments during the short period between waking up in the morning and her crappy toast with crust and natural peanut butter breakfast.)

Things my daughter thinks are bullshit

1. People who don’t understand math
2. Book reports
3. Reports of any kind
4. Patriarchy
5. Old toothbrushes
6. Pantyhose
7. People who don’t refill the milk
8. Bras
9. Rules
10. Hair conditioner bottles that hold less than a gallon
11. Stupid people
12. Clumpy mascara
13. Locked doors
14. Dress codes
15. Uniforms
16. Fake pockets
17. Telemarketers
18. Slippery hair pins
19. Patronizing tone of voice
20. Snow
21. Rain
22. Anything that falls from the sky, really
23. Toast crusts, bread crusts, DON’T GET ME STARTED ON CRUSTY ROLLS
24. Heat
25. Sweat
26. Sun in your eyes
27. Standing in line
28. Homework
29. Periods
30. Boobs
31. Knuckle hair
32. Pimples
33. Armpits
34. The whole body; it’s gross, really
35. Exercise
36. Plain yogurt
37. Whole wheat products of any kind
38. Chores
39. Sexism
40. When the TV remote control is all the way over there
41. Racism
42. People in general
43. Inconsiderate cyclists
44. Rudeness
45. Ignorance
46. Toe socks, actually no; wait, I love those, I just hate them in theory
47. The stupid TV show “Dog with a Blog”
48. Pit bull (the singer not the pet)
49. Not having a pet
50. Seriously, when are we getting a goddamn dog?
51. Pomegranate or grapefruit – wait; which one is the tangy one? JUST WRITE “BOTH”
52. Slow scribes
53. Unsweetened drinks
54. *Guacamole (*who is this person?)
55. Green foods except jello, and yes, it is a food.
56. Chunks in salsa
57. Overprotective parents
58. Lying liars who LIE
59. Excuses
60. Arrogance
61. Natural peanut butter
62. Quick showers
63. Pulp
64. Early bedtimes
65. Daily vitamins
66. Lint
67. Dust
68. Putting away laundry
69. Emptying the dishwasher
70. Joggers
71. Practice of any sort
72. Short battery life
73. I’m going to be late for the bus, MOTHER.

* Lest you think I am cruel or dismissive, I have posted this list with complete approval from my daughter. I asked if I could put her “beefs” on my blog and she responded thus: “Whatever. I don’t care if you put it on your blog. Blogs are bullshit.”

Have any to add?

Twenty Four Days

I’m in the bath (don’t bother trying to visualize; it’s not attractive and my grout is cracked). I’m trying to relax after a sugar binge over the weekend has me coping with a three day headache. But it’s increasingly hard to “go to my happy place” with the heavy hammering and sawing noises coming from the living room.

We’re not under construction. I have not hired workmen. There is nary a DIY project in sight. This is alarming then, no? I should probably get out and see what’s going on but strawberry bubbles.

My 14 year-old daughter is home, but she is in her room, exhausted from a day of eye-rolling and the tiring work of judging a mother who seeks only to love her. She’s probably planning her third – yes, third – shower since yesterday. If this girl farts she changes her clothes and burns her bedding. So unless she’s sawing an escape hatch, it’s likely not her. I’ll check though, just to be sure.

The noise can mean only one of two things: a) a neighbour – no longer able to stand the sight of battered recycling bins dotting the edge of my driveway two days post pick-up – is building me a shed; or b) my nine year-old son has returned from his friend’s house and is doing, you know, “Nothing, Mom!”

There are 24 days until school lets out here. I have 24 days until I am eye-rolled and sighed into insanity. Twenty four days to find hiding spots for my hammers, saws, drills, staple guns, and all other items I refer to with a numerical system from 1 to 5 based on their injury risk; ie. Saw – 1 (Band-aid) Drill – 2 (Stitches) and finally Hammer and Nails 5 – (Get Comfy In This Sticky Germ-Crusted Hospital Waiting Room Chair.)

That leaves me just over three weeks to figure out how I’m going to continue to work from home in relative peace. I should probably start practicing how to maintain a calm and measured voice while still relaying urgency in the message “THAT’S A LOAD BEARING WALL!

Twenty four days.

Planting the Seeds of Motivation

There are a lot of things I don’t like. The list is exhaustive and constantly in flux, so I will spare you the gritty details. Some of the things on my “no-fly list” are there for reasons which any reasonable person would find ridiculous. I am not a reasonable person most of the time. I use that time to be ridiculous.

In the past I’ve told people that their efforts to placate my irrational fears or hatred of things with rational arguments is time wasted on their behalf. You cannot refute an irrational argument with rationality, I say. (I am told this is exactly how you conquer irrationality.)

One of the things I hate the most is motivational “artwork.” You know what I’m talking about: someone takes a picture of a mountain or an eagle soaring over a lush forest landscape and adds an inspirational quote at the bottom in a bold font. Things like “Your Attitude Determines Your Altitude,” or “Success: Some Dream About It; Others Work At It.“

Screw that. I once used the words “ass wipe,” and “communist bloc Russia” in a 20-second conversation with a stranger in a grocery store check-out line, so it’s not a stretch to say these type of inspirational posters have no place in my life. I don’t need a plaque showing a baby turtle crawling to the ocean above the phrase “Determination: It’s What Gets You Where You’re Going.” I need something succinct, something more to-the-point, something me. I need a short, concise phrase that will motivate me to do well under even the most dire and difficult of circumstances. I need my primary motivation captured on paper, preferably in one word.

Thanks to a friend with a good heart and a Cricut machine, I finally have it:

 

You can now find me at MamaPop.com three times weekly – on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Here’s why I hate “Reasons My Son Is Crying,” why I love Rebel Wilson, and how the return of Whose Line Is It Anyway? will save America.

Sports bras and Insanity. They are related.

It was exercise day today and I’m laying on my bed right now. It’s after 6, and I should be making dinner, but the fact of the matter is that I can’t move any of my legs. (I think I have two. But I’m not sure, because I can’t feel anything below my chest.)

My chest was spared from injury because my 14 year-old daughter helped me tape my boobs together. I believe that if you are going to do something, do it right and enlist help from those legally obligated to love you regardless.

I’ve watched all the stupid Insanity DVDs in this set and no where is there a woman with a chest bigger than the one I had in grade five. I know muscle takes place of some fatty tissue, but what about the “before” part? Million dollar sports bras are an option but my children have grown accustomed to the taste of red meat and I hate to take that away from them just so I can do something called a “Suicide Jump” without giving myself a concussion.

I am a sexy beast, no?

And so day three of Insanity is over, although to be fair it ended sooner than anticipated when my son found me curled up sobbing on the basement floor with my breasts bound with blue duct tape, so you know, any given Monday.

I wrote some other stuff this week, over at The Huffington Post and at MamaPop.com, all of which is substantially more inspiring.*

* It will not inspire you at all.

Maybe you’ll like this picture of my son trapped under an anvil instead:

He knows my pain.

I’m a new box in the “demographic” column

It’s tax time which means math time which means headache time, which means grouchy time which means liquor store time which means needs money time which means work time which means income time which means tax time.

It really does all come back to death and taxes.

In “moving ever closer to death news,” I turned 40 on Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day is the absolute worst day to have a birthday because people can now forget both days at once which is time-saving and convenient if you’re a positive thinker and reason for a rampage if you’re not. I heard from all the people I cared to, and the ones I didn’t don’t matter. So, so far, 40= apathy.

Being 40 is about as good as I expected it to be which is not-at-all good, although that feeling of “no longer giving a shit”  all you 40 years old+ people told me about is kicking in, and so far it’s very refreshing.

And, well, 40 is not dead (yet) so there’s that.

This is depressing me, and likely you, so go read the funny I wrote at MamaPop.com recently. I’ll be back soon with more of my trademark inspirational jibber-jabber.

CBS Bans Excessive Skin On Grammy Night, Securing Status As “Get Off My Lawn Network”

“America Is A Nation Of Excuses:” Fox News Guest Says Being Fat Negates ALl Adele’s Accomplishments

Search For Best Mom Ever Ends As Sweetest Adopted Baby Announcement Of All Time Surfaces 

 

 

This post contains words but says little and is written primarily out of guilt, much like a birthday card from a distant relative

Happy New Year, everyone. When can we stop saying that? What’s the protocol on seasonal greetings? I’m not much on protocol. Or etiquette, or hygiene.

But I do like tradition. A few days ago it was my most favourite day of the entire Holiday Season. It was the day when I fling my Christmas tree onto the front lawn and yell, “Toodle-loo, MOTHAFUCKA!“

I love Christmas, but no longer wish to impale my feet on pine needles trying to turn on the television, and having my house smell like a cinnamon stick factory next to a pine forest was getting old.

A few days ago, my friend Katja asked me if I was writing a New Year’s post on my blog. At first I was like, “I have a blog? Oh, crap! My blog!” and then I ran here to make sure it was still alive. Really, this thing needs more attention than a naked toddler near a basket of clean laundry. I haven’t posted since before Christmas and the break was lovely. Not that I don’t enjoy writing – I do, almost more than anything else I do.*

*I don’t do much.

So Katja and some other Internet friends (not the kind who size you up for making blazers from your skin..I think) have been busy coming up with their words for the year. They range from serious to funny and everything in between. These are the words they will focus on and remember in their endeavors in the coming 12 months. While I’m not quite sure what word I will use for 2013, I do happen to have a list of words for the departing 2012.

They include:

• Hey, 2012! Go &%$# yourself!
• Excuse me? 2012? Eat $%(* and die.
• (Holds 2012 in a choke hold.)
• Hahaha SPITE

I let you know when I’m ready with my 2013, so I guess for now it’s just “WAIT.”

What’s your word?

Stubble Trouble

Normally today I’d put up a “Tip Thursday” post, but there’s been a  bit of drama around here and I can’t stop thinking about the problem at hand. Or rather, the problem at face.

This morning I found a hair on my cheek. Rather, IN my cheek.

A freaking cheek hair.

A cheek hair.

A HAIR.

IN MY CHEEK.

I’ll take “Two words that shouldn’t ever go together when referring to women,” Alex.

I know that everyone has a little fuzz on their faces, and that there are bigger problems in the world to spend time discussing. I understand that children go to bed hungry, and blahblahblah I DON’T GIVE A SHIT I’VE GOT HAIR ON MAI FACE.

I am neither a man nor a beast, so why is this happening to me?

I spotted the hair this morning and brushed it away, thinking it was an errant lock from my head. Sadly, this was not the case. It was gray (because OF COURSE IT WAS) and it was glittery. It was at least 3 inches long, and I may save it to use as tinsel on the Christmas tree, if I stop crying in time to buy a tree.

How did it grow so long? Is it possible that it’s been there for many days, or weeks?  OH MY GOD IT’S BEEN THERE FOR MONTHS, HASN’T IT? It took three tries to pull it out and the root was long. It still hurts and there’s a bit of a hole marking the spot of the struggle.

Do I have a horrible disease wherein I start sprouting facial hair while the hair on my head thins and grays? Are my vital organs suffering at the hands of this nutrient-life-force-sucking cheek hair? Is this my “Welcome to 40, Biotch” warm-up? I’ve got 2 months left in 39 and I’d like to spend them facial-hair free, if possible.

I mean, I love a bearded man, so maybe my prayers were misinterpreted somehow?

Is this a precursor of what’s to come?  What can I expect next?

Give it to me straight, friends. I’ll be back to check in a few hours. Until then, I’ll be upstairs.

Shaving.

__________________________________________________________________________

Updated: Uh oh, you guys. It gets worse. Apparently, MUCH worse. Let my friend Sharon tell you:

The Product You Thought You’d Never Need

Tip Thursday: Effective Internet Communication

The internet is a real paradox. It brings out both the best and worst of people, and while I love that so many of us get passionate online about political ideology, current events, and worthy causes, sometimes internet commenting can get to be just a bit much. (Have you read anything on “YouTube” lately?)

Online discussion can provide a wonderful forum for people who want to get involved in their communities, and sharing opinions and opening dialogue often acts as springboard for debate.

But.

I have a few requests. Today’s Tip Thursday is devoted to ensuring the best in high calibre discussion, so pay close attention. This list is culled after reading hundreds – if not thousands of internet comments, and from that number, I’ve taken notice of the most common problems.

1. Physicality.  In any argument, make sure you make reference to physical traits, sexual preference, age, hair colour, or religious affiliation. We all know that someone is what they look like, so don’t let anyone forget it. For instance, I have a questionable hair cut, so naturally one can conclude that I am an idiot and a bitch. Oh wait; I think I’m a bitch because I don’t wear dresses? I can’t remember. I must be blonde.
2. Language. Please, swear as much as possible. The internet isn’t censored, so why are you not taking advantage? If you can’t think of a synonym for “ignorant,” try “asshole.” Can’t remember how to spell “misogynistic?” Use “dickhead.”  (Bonus points for using curse words as adjectives, nouns, and verbs. Super bonus points if you do all three in one sentence.)
3. Facts. Simply put, who needs ‘em? In their absence, suggest research is “lefty propaganda,” or perhaps voice your opinion with the caveat “but whatever; that’s just me.”  
4. Spelling and grammar. These are the cornerstones of effective written debate, and therefore, have no place in internet discussion.  Got it, shithedd? That was to see if you’re still with me. Add three points if you caught it. (PS. “Points” actually mean nothing here, but studies show people love points.)
5. Punctuation. If youre mad and in a hurry when you type don’t be concerned This will actually serve to also further confuse the reader proving how stupid they are anyways right.
6. Conjecture. Throw in some random conspiracy theories. People who don’t believe in conspiracy theories are probably just breathing in too many jet chemtrails… (See also: reference to pinko commie/lefty propaganda.)
7. Rationality. Should someone try to enter into the conversation using such things as clarity, facts, or intelligence, you must immediately shut that shit down. Gather the troops, link up, and share away. This type of intelligence discourse must be avoided at all costs. Knowledge is power and that’s not good for anyone.

Now, go forth and argue effectively!

If you’re having trouble finding something to get fired up about, I’ve got quite the dossier on Ann Coulter, and  there’s always Fox News.