Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Facebook is Out of Control

My teen-age daughter and I were perusing magazines in a local superstore earlier today when we couldn't help but overhear a conversation taking place in the same aisle.

Here's a snippet of their chat:

Girl One: I heard they were getting divorced, but I don't know if they are now. They were in here the other day and they were all up on each other.
Girl Two: Oh, yeah. I heard they were getting divorced, too. I've been watching her Facebook, and I saw that one coming.
Girl One: Yeah, but have you heard the latest? [dramatic pause] She's pregnant!
Girl Two: OH. MAH. GAH.
Girl One: MmmmHmmm. Preggggg - nant. With Number Three.
Girl Two: OH. MAH. GAH. She hasn't put anything about that on Facebook, girl.
Girl One: Duh. She doesn't want people to know yet. But I heard it from one of my other friends on Facebook who is friends with her, so I'm pretty sure it's true.
Girl Two: What is she gonna do? She already has those two little ones. I thought they were stopping?
Girl One: Well, we don't know it's his, now do we?
Girl Two: Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm. Drama.
Girl One: Are you coming to my Fourth of July party? They're supposed to be there.
Girl Two: I'm gonna try to, if I can.
Girl One: Well, you should come. You just know we're gonna have some drama this year...

At this point, my daughter and I were covering our faces with magazines trying to hide our giggles. Why?

[dramatic pause]

Because the women having this conversation were two little white-haired old ladies.

Yes, they were. They were 70 if they were a day.

Facebook is out of friggin' control, man!

Oh. Mah. Gah.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Dad Takes the Cake

It's Father's Day, and I owe my dad so much.

Thanks to my father, I will always drive with my seat upright, keep a cautious eye out for deer crossing the road and never turn my music up too loud. Sure, these things might sound elementary, but if Dad didn't constantly advise me, who's to say what could happen? I might be prone to not flipping on my windshield wipers when it rains or turning my lights on when I drive after dark.

In all seriousness, Dad's constant advice matters to me. Those words of wisdom let me know how very much he cares. Well, that, or he thinks I'm a couple of beers short of a six-pack and a horrible driver, but I prefer to think it's because he loves me and wants to protect me, no matter how old I am. For some reason, in my father's eyes, I'm still an eight-year-old in pigtails.

To thank Dad for all he's done for me and my children, I naturally wanted to do something special for him on Father's Day. Unfortunately, Dad is one of those men who is incredibly uncomfortable receiving presents, and honestly, at 71, he has most everything he wants, anyway. Plus, he already has so many gift cards that his wallet rivals George Costanza's fat billfold (I love random Seinfeld references).

After some debate, I decided to bake Dad his favorite dessert: a layered homemade banana cake with thick caramel praline frosting. At least Dad tells me my banana cake his favorite dessert, but I also happen to  know my sister-in-law baked him a chocolate pie today because he told her that was his favorite dessert. I think he's running quite the racket here, but I digress...

Once the cake was baked, frosted and packaged, I called Dad to see if he was home (he lives in nearby town) so the kids and I could deliver his gift. The conversation went as follows:

Me: Happy Father's Day!
Dad: Happy Father's Day to you!
Me: Well, okay, thanks, but I'm not a father.
Dad: Whew. I'm tired, Jenny. I've been out in the sun too long this weekend. Your sister called to invite me to breakfast this morning, and I was so sleepy I thought it was your brother, so I called him and woke him up and told him I'd go. He had never called. But we figured it out.
Me: Um, yeah. That's good. So are you going to be home for a little while?
Dad: I don't know. Why?
Me: The kids and I wanted to see you and bring you your Father's Day gift.
Dad: Oh. Okay. I might not be here, though.
Me: {sigh} So when would be a good time to bring your gift by? Should we come now or later this evening?
Dad: Not this evening! I don't want you driving at dark.
Me: Dad. I'm 40. I can drive after dark, you know.
Dad: I'd rather you not
Me: Okay. That's fine. We'll just come over now, then.
Dad: You don't need to drive over now, either. It's too hot. What if your van broke down on the parkway? And you with those kids?
Me: We'll be just fine, Dad. How about I just grab the kids and we'll run over and drop off your gift now? That way, if you want to do something later, you'll be free.
Dad: Ummmm. I guess that'll be okay.
Me: Okay. See you in a few.

I grabbed his cake, the kids and my car keys and was headed out the door when the phone rang.

Me: Hello?
Mom: Jenny, I was just calling to tell  you that we'll come over to your house instead. Your Dad doesn't want you on the road today.
Me: Mom, this is ridiculous. Dad told me how tired he is. Anyway, I was on my way out the door. Do you not want me to come over for some reason? Are you making those movies again?
Mom: Don't be silly! Your Dad and I are on our way out the door. So we'll just come over there.
Me: I'm getting a complex, you know.
Mom: See you in a little while, sweetheart!

Did I mention my Dad is the biggest control freak I know?! Anyway, they supposedly needed to run some errands in my town, so it made more sense for them to come here. Once again, I am beginning to think they suspect I'm the type who is too dumb to pull my head in before I shut the car window. For the record, I only did that once. Well, okay. Twice.

At any rate, about 30 minutes later, Mom and Dad arrived, and I presented Dad with his cake. This is the conversation that followed:

Dad: Thanks, this looks really good, but it's hot out there, and I'll have to leave it in the truck.Will the frosting melt?
Me: I guess it could melt. It's butter-based.
Mom: I think it will be fine. We'll put it in shade.
Dad: I don't know. You see, I have to feed your mother. She hasn't eaten anything since breakfast {he rolls his eyes}. Then we have to go to Sam's Club. That's a long time.
Me: Go run your errands and come back for the cake. It's fine. Really.
Dad [to Mom]: Do you think I can trust them with my cake? What if they eat it?
Mom [to Dad]: Well, you're the one who wanted to come by here first! I told you we should come on the way back!
Dad [to Mom]: I didn't want to interfere with their plans. What if they have plans?
Me: We're flexible. Someone will be here. It's no big deal. But if we weren't, you have keys to the house anyway, don't you?
Dad [to Mom]: Do we have keys?
Mom: We have keys, yes, but not with us.
Dad: Dammit!
Mom: Well, how was I supposed to know we'd need the keys?
Me: You don't need keys. Someone will be here. The cake will be here. See you soon.

Fast-forward another hour and Dad at long last returns for his cake.

Me: I'm glad you're finally getting your cake. Happy Father's Day. I didn't mean for it to be such a hassle.
Dad: What can I say, honey? If I can give you a little fatherly advice: Life is awfully sweet, but it's not always a cake walk.

True story.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

You absolutely take the cake!

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

She's Got the Reeboks with the Straps!

While looking through some old photos today, I stumbled across this little gem from my high school cheerleader days:

Something is horribly wrong with this photo.

No, it's not the huge, fried, 1987 hair, which we can all agree was totally awesome. No, it's not my uneven cut-off sweatpants shorts, though I certainly understand how you would guess that.

And it's not my knobby knees, my bitchin' Reeboks (with the straps!) or the fact that I'm standing on a dude. (Incidentally, mad love to my friend J, who was our only male cheerleader and endured considerable grief for it. But the joke's on all the other guys because J spent his high school days with girls in short skirts on his shoulders.)

You'll notice that the other three cheerleaders in the photo are actually wearing cheerleader apparel of some sort. One of them has on our official cheerleader uniform, while the other two are sporting cool T-shirts emblazoned with cheerleader logos because cheerleaders, being the elitist snobs that we were, wanted you to know we were cheerleaders. Our entire social hierarchy depended on you acknowledging this, so we wore the word "Cheerleader" on as many of our clothes as possible - even on the asses of our shorts. Recognize, bitchez!

But me? What am I wearing? A lovely t-shirt featuring a beverage and the words, "Hunch Punch". Yes, that's right. Hunch Punch. It certainly doesn't do much to dispel the high school cheerleader stereotypes, now does it?

We've got spirit!
Your team's whack!
Give me some hunch punch and I'll do the quarterback!

(Actually, I did do the quarterback. Numerous times. But it's totally okay because I eventually married him).

Did I mention this photo was in my hometown's newspaper?

My parents must have been terribly proud.