Tagged: kids


I’ve posted about getting old already, but shut up. I don’t have a lot rattling around in the ol’ brain box and, you know, I’m getting old.

It all happened last week when the boy I nanny asked me what “this thing” was.

When I told him it was an iPod, he looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. And then he called it stupid, or some similar childish insult, because you can’t play games on it. I don’t know what he’s talking about, “can’t play games on it”, ’cause I play a mean Brick Buster on this thing on the daily. And I’m assuming that “on the daily” means whenever I’m bored because I don’t know what you kids mean with your hip phrases and backwards hats. It’s confusing.

Anyway, after dying a little inside, I realized I just had my first real “getting old” moment. God forbid I showed this kid an 8-track or a Laserdisc; he’d probably crap his jim jams. To be fair, if I saw a Laserdisc, I’d probably crap in my jim jams too; those things were retarded.

Laserdiscs were good for those dramatic breakup scenes. Now if I want to ruin his music/movie collection because I’m crazy he’s wrong, I only get to break one or two tiny things. Stupid technology.


Craft stores walk a very fine line between awesome and depressing. Yesterday I was wasting time in mine, looking at craft projects I’ll never do, and stupid stamps and what have you and I ended up in the scrapbooking section. That aisle(s) is like stepping into a new dimension of crazy lady that I’m not ready for. 

I mean I’m pretty sure I ran into Eleanor Abernathy, let’s just put it that way.
Scrapbooking in general just weirds me out. People scrapbook either the most monumental or the most ricidulous events. You think you’re not going to remember getting married or having a baby? Because if you need a book of overpriced stickers and weird paper to help jog the old melon, I think you have bigger issues, my friend. Note: the “as your baby grows” books or whatever are not the same as scrapbooking. Keeping track of your kid’s first boogers and whatnot is awesome, but it’s not the same as decorating a page with one picture on it and $50 worth of stickers and weird paper embellishments.

Then there’s the other kind of  scrapbooking. “Remember that time I cooked a whole chicken?!” (H2B: before you unleash jokes about how, for me, cooking a meal would fall under the category of monumental [ie: baby, wedding, zombie apocalypse] and not ridiculous, please read this).

What the cuss is this even for? Who needs to remember the time they cooked a meal? Don’t try to sell me on how you could use this to remember cooking your first meal with your kid or something because, Jesus, buy a journal and a pen, you dolt.

“Man, Vegas was crazy. We got so out of hand at the casino and whatnot.” No you didn’t. If you scrapbook about your vacations/themed party nights, I feel sorry for the people around you.

Also, you should feel pretty retarded walking up to the register at whatever store and paying $3-$5 for a set of fake playing cards and poker chips. If you have that kind of money to burn, I have time to register as a 501(c)3 and we can probably work something out.

Here’s the part where I get bummed out and quit calling you retarded and just lament for societal dysfunction (and no, I don’t have a picture for it because I thought I could Google image it, but Google is being a turd). There was a set of stickers targeted to moms who want to scrapbook with their little girls. The sticker set contained lipstick, a blow dryer, a cell phone, a dress, cupcakes, and other similar things in ungodly bright colors. I bought them; because I want my daughter to know she gets to grow up and focus all of her time on looking pretty, texting, and baking for people. And also that she was born during the 1950’s time warp.


Nothing says creepy like searching for “little girl” in Google images. Now if Chris Hansen doesn’t barge through the door in the next few minutes, I can explain myself. Every day at my job, I open a buttload of mail. It’s almost always junk and the other day was no exception. Only, it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill useless adult catalog crap, it was worse. It was Garnet Hill Kids and Mini Boden. FML for even knowing what those are…

Allow me to shed some light on the situation, friends. What’s up with parents trying to make their kids look like miniature adults? Kids are like midgets with better motor functions and body proportion; they don’t get to dress like grown ups. OK, so this isn’t J. Crew kid and they don’t look like actual grownups, but still; the ‘fashion forward’ mismatched prints look with knee high boots and a useless scarf? They’re one step away from [insert trendy nightclub here] and an Urban Outfitters addiction. What is the deal?¹ First of all, these clothes cost the same or more as the clothes I buy and unless I get picked up for Woman vs Food (fingers crossed!), I’m actually going to be able to wear mine forever. Anyway, in my creepster Google session this morning, here’s what really took the cake:

As far as models go, they have the whole androgynous and disgustingly thin thing down, but…what? I don’t know who this designer is, because who the hell really cares, but what normal² parent is going to dress their children in this? I saw a little girl wearing heels the other day and just about had a seizure. What happened to turquoise leggings with a Little Mermaid t-shirt (true story: that was pretty much what I wore every day when I was seven) and disheveled hair? Between this and allowing women to vote, I don’t know what this country is coming to…

Now here’s an outfit I can really appreciate.

It’s slightly conservative, super cute, and even a little fun paired with the right shoes.

Not to mention, it looks really good with a splash of red and they can wear it forever and ever and ever…


¹ Hi, Jerry Seinfeld.


The other day I heard the term “quarter life crisis” to refer to the 20-something group of kids who are coming to grips with their mortality, insignificance, and emotional impotency (and, well, other forms of impotency). I thought it was some new term designed to drive book sales or create movie spinoffs, but it has been around for at least ten years (ultimately creating lame movie spinoffs and books from that time period that I will refuse to read for lack of technological relevance alone).

In any case, I googled it because that’s how I find my facts. Google led to Wikipedia (read it) which led to my new-found expertise on the matter because, let’s face it, Wikipedia knows what’s up. Basically, young kids who might be reading this, here’s what you can supposedly look forward to:

  • confronting one’s own mortality
  • insecurity concerning ability to love oneself, let alone another person
  • insecurity regarding present accomplishments
  • re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships
  • lack of friendships or romantic relationships,sexual frustration, andinvoluntary celibacy (which, for some of you poor suckers, will be an all-life crisis event)
  • disappointment with one’s job
  • nostalgia for university, college, high school, middle school, or elementary school life
  • tendency to hold stronger opinions (gasp!)
  • boredom with social interactions
  • loss of closeness to high school and college friends
  • financially-rooted stress (overwhelming college loans, unexpectedly high cost of living)
  • loneliness, depression, and suicidal tendencies
  • desire to have children
  • a sense that others are doing better than oneself
  • frustration with social skills

Awesome. But I’m a visual person so I wanted to see what a quarter life crisis looks like. Sweet Jesus! First of all, don’t people of all ages deal with things from that bullet list? Moreover, aren’t we supposed to hate our jobs in the beginning? It’s kind of natures way of weeding out the leeches. Those who are motivated to move on from whatever crappy position they’re in will eventually improve upon their general state of happiness (here’s a helpful chart for those of you who are into that sort of thing). Those who don’t will forever work at their local crap-store jobs, get wasted every night, and hate their lives. It’s how our society is supposed to work.

And feelings of insignificance are normal. We’re tiny specks on a huge planet in an infinite universe. We don’t register on any scales of significance save for our own self-created, superficial ones. Excluding the obvious poster-children for life/world significance (Mother Theresa, Ghandi, etc.) most major claims of fame and/or notoriety (see also: our definition of significance) are based on completely idiotic and superficial grounds. Half of the world probably knows who Snooki is, and I’m supposed to feel bad because half of my town doesn’t know who I am? Suck it, MTV.

If you haven’t already read the article, I’ll go ahead and save you the trouble with this simple circle-your-answer cheat sheet that you can decide on when the freight train of the quarter life crisis rams you in the rear:

  • Suck it up
  • Quit life


Ah, kids. They say and do the darndest things, don’t they? Speaking of doing stupid things, I was shopping on some teen Web site (don’t judge me) and was stopped dead in my figurative tracks when I saw this:

I have seen Bill Me Later before, the internet solution for deadbeat online shoppers, but not this. Who the hell created Bill My Parents and thought it would be a great idea? I had to find out more and so I clicked the tiny “What’s this?” link:

Imagine you open your email to see a message from little what’s-her/his-name, pride and joy of your life. Inside are no well-wishes or how-are-you’s, but a ‘shopping bag’ full of stupid crap your kid wears and a “pay now” button. What to do, what to do. You could send a text or a Facebook message for more information from the little dillhole or you could try being a parent, marching into your kid’s room and giving them a spanking. I don’t care how old they are or how much they threaten to call child services. Heck, tell them you’ll drive them there yourself.

I wasn’t exactly the poster child for good behavior growing up, but never would I think it a good idea, let alone a possibility, to fill up an online shopping cart with all the crap I wanted, send it via email to my mom or dad, and presume they would pay for it. Wise up, you young turds, and ask your parents’ permission in advance. Bonus points for asking in person.


Follow your dreams. To the max. Amen. That’s right, boys and girls, reach for the sky, the stars, the planets, and potentially undiscovered universes. I want you to open every closed door and punch rejection in the balls because you’re awesome.

I don’t care how ugly or stupid you are, whatever you want to do, you can do it, because this is America and our parents say so.

Failed high school? You can still be President. Weigh 300 lbs? You can still be a model. If you believe it,  you can achieve it.

It certainly doesn’t matter that people all over the world work tirelessly for their dreams or are born into well-connected families  because you’ve got the power of wanting it really, really, really badly on your side and that trumps hard work and connections any day (bonus: it’s also easier!).

Don’t let the naysayers con you into working hard or going to school any longer than you have to; hop on the Indignant Express (don’t forget your cell phones and Twitter accounts) where you’ll ride the rainbow to happiness. First stop, your dream job!


So, while you lackeys slave away at your crap jobs for pesos or wampum or whatever it is you poor folk make, I get paid to play video games (sometimes).






Much like any job, no matter how good, there is always something to complain about. In said video games, I have noticed there is an enormous amount of help if you’re unable to complete a level after multiple attempts. In Donkey Kong, a fat, nerdy pig lets you know a gorilla will complete the level for you, allowing you to move on to the next level. Similarly, in Super Mario Brothers, a Super Guide (who comes out of a green box with an exclamation point and looks a lot like Luigi; good effort, Nintendo) does the same thing, but also gives you the option to try again yourself after it shows you exactly how to complete it.

What the hell, Nintendo? Where were you when I was playing frustrating 8-bit Mario games? Where were you when I played Ninja Gaiden? Where were you in real life to help me avoid turning into a complete nerd?

Ahem, in any case, the boy I nanny no longer understands the concept of if you can’t do it yourself, you don’t move on. “Just use the pig,” he says, when we’re stuck on a level. Indignantly, I always protest: “No! We didn’t have helper pigs when I was growing up! If you didn’t beat a level, you didn’t beat a level.”

Over ten years later, I still haven’t beat the original Ninja Gaiden and I’ll be damned if some stupid pig or “Super Guide” is going to help.