Planet Mom Blog

“It’s Joe the plumber. I’ve come to fix the sink.”

 

I love the fact that my kids have graduated to that stage where they can (and will) go outside and blow the stink off them. Without me. I can vegetate here at my computer, blissfully typing all the meaningless drivel I yearn to share with you (and I will…I promise), while watching them run and jump and climb and twirl and whatever else it is that kids do to entertain themselves in the great outdoors—to include “squishing only the bad bugs, Mommy.”

 

So now to the task of sharing meaningless drivel…what shall I tell you about? Well, perhaps I should reveal my current (and mildly immobilizing) preoccupation—that of being thoroughly convinced that the plumbers “…who came to fix the sink” (neither of whom was named Joe, incidentally) had every opportunity to install one of those hidden camera doodads in our shower. For crying out loud, they trudged up and down and up and down our stairs and into and out of our master bath at least 600 times! Unsupervised! What was I thinking?!!

 

Logically it follows that they did, in fact, install something sinister. Something unspeakably evil. Something horribly invasive. The whole thing just creeps me out—in a Sharon Stone Sliver sort of way.

 

Of course, this proves I am completely insane—never mind hopelessly paranoid and utterly irrational. Good God.

 

But this is how my mind works. Or doesn’t. I get something entirely stupid like this solidly wedged in my head and I. Can’t. Let. It. Go. I’m shampooing and lathering and warbling (at best) some silly ass song while in the shower—the one that those wonderful plumbers so expertly repaired—while secretly wondering, “How do I look? Is this freaking thing recording in color or Psycho-ish black and white? Have the fools been kind enough to put tape over my eyes and to erase 20 or 30 pounds? Is that even possible?!!”

 

Paranoia is a strange and crippling thing. Perhaps I need shower therapy.

 

But I won’t be calling the plumber—even Joe, the plumber.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (not so lucid at times). But you can still visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com. And while you’re there, check out my Zazzle-fied virtual store. I’ve got some OUTRAGEOUSLY FUNNY “Joe the Plumber T-shirts!”

 

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

 

 

For the Birds

There is a certain oddness about my yard. It’s not the grass per se; although some would argue that big, splotchy patches of yellowness amidst a sea of green means something’s definitely hokey. Who in the blazes knows—maybe our house happens to be situated in the flight pattern of nomadic dragons that fly at night and piddle all over the lawn. Hence, the enormous yellow spots. Maybe we’ve been the target of vindictive aliens who, for whatever reason, feel the need to sprinkle our property with, of all things, fingernail polish remover.

That happened to some of my favorite bath towels once. Not the alien thing, mind you. It was that self-absorbed teenager of mine who was, shall we say…less-than-specific…when it came to removing her funky-colored nail polish some years ago. Lordy, I’m thankful for linoleum. So thankful.

Back to that certain oddness…in my yard. It’s downright disturbing, actually. Not just odd. More specifically, it’s those blasted crows that land there each and every day. Great hordes of them. Shockingly black. Unequivocally evil. And arrogant to the core. Those unsightly, yellow-beaked, glossy-coated vagrants have made a haven of my grassy knoll of late, CAWING and CAWING and CAWING till I can’t stand it any more. Almost every afternoon they flock there by the hundreds (I’M NOT EXAGGERATING!) and pick and peck and poke at God-knows-what in the grass, strutting around like they own the joint. But first, said armies of filth and ugliness fill the trees as if masses of foul fruit—snapping off twigs left and right and dropping disgusting little clumps of feathers (among other things) on the ground. It’s a hideous site for certain—a freakish, almost surreal, sort of scene I’d rather not even think about let alone experience. Wicked fiends anyway. Alfred Hitchcock would be proud.

Admittedly, I am a pansy; and it bothers me greatly to even step out my front door once those dreadful creatures have commandeered the area. Thoughts and images of the classic movie, The Birds, fill my silly head and I can’t bear to walk among the winged beasts without cowering slightly—ready to tear into the street, thrashing and flailing my arms about wildly and shrieking like a madwoman. A madwoman with an irrational fear involving crows, that is. Crowaphobia, perhaps.

It’s their beady little eyes that get to me the most—pea-sized pools of darkness that dart to and fro, forever appraising me for peck-worthiness. My eyes especially. Eeeeek! And the jerkiness. I can’t stand that whole jerkiness thing. It just looks so…ridiculously awkward…when a bird takes to its feet—like it’s engaging in some sort of convulsive Chicken Dance. Good God, my house plants would look more natural taking a stroll!

It wouldn’t be as much of an issue, I suppose, if I didn’t have to go anywhere or do anything…outside…in the afternoon. I’d be perfectly content (never mind hopelessly neurotic) to remain holed up here in my tiny hovel, where I could view said loathsome beings while nestled comfortably inside, safe and sound from the evil that lurks beyond my windowpanes.

Then again, maybe not. Hitchcock would be pleased to know I entertain such foolishness.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel

Let them Eat Cake!

Cake. Jelly beans. Dog biscuits. Whatever. I don’t really care—just so long as those strange children of mine, especially the one who epitomizes the term “picky eater,” chows down on something for a change. Better yet—something relatively normal. Like potatoes. Or a hotdog. Or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for crying out loud. I’m tired of having to slap a meal together for a creature whose diet is about as varied as vegetation is on the moon.

Because of my propensity for being easily amused, I find it thoroughly entertaining that she-who-refuses-to-try-new-foods is even on the silly growth chart at this point—and progressing nicely, I might add. She tips the scales at a whopping 40 pounds of solid muscle, assorted bumps and bruises, equal doses of grass stains and grunge, pluckiness galore and a mere wisp of girly-ness. Home grown on nothing more than chocolate milk and Cheez-Its, pancakes and popcorn, bread and bananas, a few cereals and an occasional raisin (but never mingling intimately), peanuts (but not cashews, almonds or walnuts, mind you!), ketchup (that’s a vegetable, right?), fruit roll-ups (Gak!), peas and carrots (unless they happen to be touching), Swedish Fish, Goldfish and fish sticks (but never tuna fish), Happy Meals (naturally!) and yogurt (which I suspect she “likes” only because Over the Hedge characters are plastered all over the containers).

Oh. Cake and ice cream, too (any flavor…I think).

Oddly enough, the child in question will heartily dig into pizza crust, but never pizza itself, bread sticks (but watch those seasonings!), raviolis from a can (but forget Spaghetti-O’s!), pasta (but hold the marinara!), scrambled eggs (but skip all the others) and get this…apples, but not apple pie.

That’s wrong. It’s just plain wrong.

Likewise, she’ll devour strawberry jelly like there’s no tomorrow, but you’ll never tempt her with an actual strawberry. Monterey Jack cheese is fine too, but it’s got to be cut into rectangular strips, not cubes and never ever shredded. Are you getting all this down? There will be a test.

To add to the bizarreness, orange juice is apparently palatable, but she’ll squawk if you so much as wave an orange under her beak. So don’t wave. Unless it’s a peanut. She positively adores those sweet little nuggets of protein-packed goodness, but Skippy and his cousin, Jif, may as well bury themselves in the bowels of a cupboard somewhere for all she cares. Go figure. And this one absolutely blows my feeble mind: She loves S’mores—and even marshmallows separately, but forget that wonderful stuff called Fluff. Blaaaaaaarg! Isn’t it basically THE SAME THING??!!

It simply defies logic. What’s more, she refuses to tolerate Jell-O. Any flavor. Any shape. With fruit or without it. Tell me please, what kid on the planet doesn’t like Jell-O? It must be a crime.

Interestingly enough, how she eats is almost as entertaining as what she eats. Almost. To date, she has single-handedly raised the art of scrutinizing food to a new level. We call it “dysfunctionally obsessive.” Take raw carrots or broccoli for instance. Painstakingly, she’ll study each and every morsel, turning her fork this way and that way, checking of course for molecular quantities of dip that may have strayed. Lord knows we can’t have anything like dip touching our vegetables. That would be an atrocity of epic proportions.

Sniffing is part of the total package of neurotic fixation as well. Sadly, if it doesn’t pass the sniff test with flying colors, it gets vetoed immediately and often physically removed from the premises where it must endure painful rejection, humiliation and abandonment as a table scrap—lacking the true worthiness and dignity of being included on her plate.

When confronted about the issue of not eating what the rest of us are eating (the crux of my beef), invariably she responds with the same tired old defense: “You know, people who don’t try things know they don’t like them.” Or another favorite: “I’ll try that when I’m five.”

Well that date came and went. Nothing changed. Then it was: “I promise I’ll try it when I’m six.” Yeah right. Even her partner in weirdness asked, “When are you gonna eat like us?” Lord knows when that grand day of celebration will finally arrive.

But you can bet your biffy we’ll be having cake.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2006 Melinda L. Wentzel