Tag Archives: humor

Award: Best Parenting Ever

3 Sep

If my Facebook newsfeed is to be trusted, then today was the universal “First Day of School” everywhere in the United States.

I cite this as a fact because of the number of obligatory front-step photos posted by my friends of their children. Don’t get me wrong, they were cute. But at a certain point,  cute and cliché are not mutually exclusive.

[cli·ché:  noun: overused and betraying a lack of original thought]

So I found it refreshing to see one parent who – instead of posting the expected photo of siblings heading off to school – posted this gem:

Image Source: Doulicia

OK. That parent was my sister. And trust me, she knows her way around a shutter, so I know she was going for “deliberately irreverent” with these shots.

Which is why she is the winner of the First Annual Pithypants Parenting Award.

Boo-yah!

And the runner-up is my friend Sara, who – as the mother of two boys – tweeted this yesterday:

This sentence from an article about identity theft in our local rag amuses me to no end: “For instance, if you pay for Girl Scout cookies with a check and the child’s brother gets a hold of it and gets the numbers, he can use them to make automatic, monthly purchases for porn, or whatever he wants…” Really? From Girl Scout cookies to porn?

[Side note: who can even FIND their checkbook? Please tell me the Girl Scouts accept credit cards. If not, you can’t convince me they aren’t just training those girls to become Toll Booth operators.]

Anyway, THIS is what we need: More parents willing to challenge the norm, to laugh AT children and not simply WITH them. Thanks, Alicia and Sara – for keepin’ it real.

And now you know why I didn’t reproduce. You’re welcome.

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I would make a really bad Boy Scout. Even if I were a boy.

2 Sep

Image Source: http://neenjames.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/Boy-Scout-Be-Prepared-Emblem.jpgAlan and I celebrated Labor Day weekend by attending the “Sing-Along Sound of Music” at WolfTrap with our friends Seth and Johnny. (Alan would probably like me to clarify that this was NOT his idea, and he only purchased the tickets as a demonstration of his love for me. Seth and Johnny would probably like to note that they were mainly there for the outdoor picnic.)

More on the event itself in a separate blog entry. I’d simply like to focus on the adventure that was GETTING there.

WolfTrap is an outdoor venue in Virginia, about 15 miles outside DC. Because Alan and I planned to crash at his place after the show, we decided it would make sense for Seth, Johnny and me to drive separately and meet him there. As it turns out, this was a bad idea.

I mean, from an efficiency standpoint, it was brilliant. It reduced the total number of miles driven by everyone. But it is generally a bad idea to take three urbanites and send them into Virginia without a native guide.

Oh, we did a fine job navigating to the venue. The problem was that we hadn’t realized the route required a toll road. And really, that shouldn’t have been a huge deal. But as we sat in the line of cars approaching the toll booth, we realized the error of our ways. “Crap!” I said. “I totally forgot there was a toll booth involved. Do you guys have quarters?”

Image Source: http://www2.fitforpublicconsumption.com/TollBoothPayment.jpg“No,” Seth informed me. “I don’t have ANY cash.”

“No cash?” I asked. “Not even bills?”

“None,” he confirmed, looking to Johnny, who was digging through the glove compartment, looking a bit panicked. “We have no cash.”

I was emptying my backpack on to the seat next to me, realizing with a sinking sensation that I’d left my entire wallet at home. “I have fifty cents.”

We all looked at each other. SERIOUSLY? Three adults and we only have fifty cents on us. I knew Alan – who makes a point of always having cash on him – would face-palm just thinking about it.

“What are we going to do?” Seth asked as we creeped closer toward the toll both.

“Go in the ‘Full Service’ lane,” I instructed. “Surely we’re not the first people to come through without any cash. They have to have a credit card reader in there.”

It turns out they do not. We pulled up to the booth and Seth tried to explain our plight. “Do you accept credit cards? We only have fifty cents on us.”

The guy was neither amused nor understanding. “No. No credit cards. Cash only.”

We all looked around, as if making eye contact would miraculously mint coins. “So how can we work this out?” Seth asked. “If we don’t have any cash?”

The guy leaned forward and looked around the car. “You don’t have $1.75? Among the three of you?”

Seth confirmed that we did not, but that we had a credit card we’d be happy to run. The guy looked at us as if we were a car full of liars.

Seth asked again, “So what should we do?”

The guy said, “Get a ticket mailed to your house.”

Seth asked, “How much is the ticket?”

The guy said, “$1.75,” and we began to murmur our approval of that solution. Then after a pause, he added, “Plus $25.”

Seth was aghast. “Wait. So even though I’m telling you we WANT to pay you, because we don’t have cash and you don’t have a credit card reader I’m going to have to pay an additional $25?”

The guy nodded. “You need to pull forward,” he added. “You’re holding up the line.”

“Thanks,” Seth said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve been unbelievably helpful.”

I’m just sad we weren’t dressed in costume for the show. Somehow I think there would’ve been a different outcome if he had been talking to a car full of nuns. Next year…

Image Source: http://img.wonkette.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/nun-bumper-cars.jpg

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It wouldn’t be summer without the waterpark.

29 Aug

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It’s become something of a tradition for me to go to the waterpark with Alan and the kids when he has them for the last week of their summer break. So this past weekend… was Splashdown time.

Good news about this year’s trek – the Lazy River did not close once while we were there. (Perhaps because they now sell rubber diapers in the snack shop? Compliments to the chef!)

On a somewhat related note, when we took a lunch break and passed around a bottle of water, Alan’s son suggested we were drinking dinosaur pee. Alan refuted that, saying, urine and water are not the same thing. Helpfully, I chipped in, “But I’m going to guess every one of us has consumed human pee today.”

The kids looked disgusted and responded, predictably with, “No way!”

I raised my eyebrows. “Have you put your head IN the water in the Lazy River?” They nodded. “Fine. Then it’s a lock you’ve had urine in your mouth at some point today.”

Silence.

The kids recovered quickly and soon moved on to more important things.

Alan’s son informed me that you could bleed to death from any cut. “Maybe,” I said, “But in most cases you’d really have to work at it. I mean, you’d have to milk it like a cow.”

Alan’s daughter observed that it would be weird of you milked cows and blood came out. Then pointed out that Dracula would probably like that.

Which led us to speculate that perhaps he would be renamed, “Cownt Dracula” if that’s how he got his blood.

Image Source: http://funnydrive.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/apple-crack-funny-fruit.jpgWe all processed that for a minute, then someone said, “These apple slices are GOOD.”

“I would’ve brought more,” Alan explained, “But these were the last two apples.”

“In the WORLD?” we all asked at once. Points for us.

“Yes,” Alan said, “Ever. These slices mark the end of apples on the planet.” Points to Alan for playing along.

The conversation moved on to other things and, checking his watch, Alan suggested that we wrap up the meal and return to the waterpark. He looked at the kids and realized they were eating very slowly. “Come on! Let’s get moving.”

I’d been watching the situation unfold and said, “Good luck. I think we’ve reached a stalemate.” At some point, the kids had decided they each wanted to be the one who consumed the LAST bite of the LAST apple on Earth.

And so A’s slice remained untouched in the Tupperware container and K hid hers in her hand behind her head. I explained this to Alan and the kids started laughing, busted.

“I have an idea,” Alan said. “Let’s count to three and you can both eat them at the same time so it’s a tie.”

After many attempted psyche-outs, they finally both put the apples in their mouths. We started walking toward the gate. And here’s how the conversation went…

K: Did you swallow yet?

A: Nope. Did you?

K: Yeah.

A: Oh. (GULP)

K: Not really. I win.

A: Me too. I still have some in my mouth.

K: How much?

A: Flecks.

Alan: ENOUGH. I don’t want to hear about or see your apples!

Miraculously, the kids listened.

Now if only everyone at a waterpark could refrain from displaying their fruit. I might not have to barf in the Lazy River.

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I failed cat-anatomy.

19 Aug

Image Source: pithypants 2013

Look at this photo. Doesn’t Miss Moneypenny look like an octopus who lost three legs?

SHE TOTALLY DOES. 

If I had better Photoshop skills (or my sister on speed-dial) you would be looking at before  and after photos from the tragic accident that severed Miss Moneypenny’s other three legs.

Except you’d know that cats don’t really have eight legs.  While I do have a tragic story I could tell about smashing her in a window this week and thinking I’d accidentally maimed her, I’d rather focus on her other anatomical mystery.

Shortly after getting her, I was petting her and felt a weird bump on her stomach. I separated the skin and looked at it. It looked like a skin tag. “Alan,” I shouted. “Does this look like a nipple?”

Alan checked it out and rubbed around on her belly. “I don’t think so. It’s more like a wart or something.”

I agreed.

Fast forward a week to when I’m at the vet, having Miss Moneypenny’s West Virginian meth-addict smile inspected. “Listen, Doctor Storm,” I started, struggling to determine which was more ridiculous – calling a guy in his late 20s “doctor” or the fact that his last name made him sound like he came from a Spiderman movie. “While we’re here, can you look at Miss Moneypenny’s tummy? I think she has a skin tag or something there.”

He obliged, and asked me to show him what I was talking about. I felt around blindly until (finally!) my fingers located the little dot of braille. “Here it is!” I practically yelled, feeling triumphant.

He rolled her over and looked at it. Then looked at me. “That’s a nipple,” he said.

I was flustered. “Well, at first I thought it was a nipple, but then I couldn’t find any others, so I wasn’t sure WHAT it was. I mean – can you find any other nipples?”

He looked at me like I was an idiot, then proceeded to map out all of my cat’s nipples for me. At a certain point, I said, “Got it. I don’t need to see any more nipples, thanks.”

And that was the end of our first vet visit.

I’m going to take a vote: Is it more awkward to have a x-ray tech your own age administer a surprise enema, or have a doctor who is at least a decade your junior educate you on nipples?

Either way, I’m going to stay away from medical professionals for a while.

Meow.

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Row, row your boat.

4 Aug
Don't be too eager to seek out a power position.

Don’t be too eager to seek out a power position.

Last weekend my friend Margaret and I went kayaking on the Potomac. We rented a two-seater, and Margaret took the front seat. Or rather, she let me have the back seat.

You might think this doesn’t matter, but it does.

We had originally planned to canoe – something we’re both familiar with – and had debated who would get to take the rear seat, since we’re both control freaks and that person gets to steer. However, the boathouse was out of canoes, and – when they issued us a double kayak – we didn’t realize that the rules of our control-freakery had changed.

So Margaret (in a move that later would seem reminiscent of Tom Sawyer and the white-washed fence) conceded the rear seat, saying she thought I was probably more controlling than her. I took that as a compliment.

As it turns out? The rear seat doesn’t actually steer in a kayak. I was busy trying to match Margaret’s stroke patterns so our paddles wouldn’t hit. And every time the breeze blew, the water from her paddles landed squarely on my lap.

When we finished our hour-long adventure, we climbed out of the boat – Margaret as dry as a bone, and me? My skirt was drenched and I was sitting in a pool of water. It looked like I’d soiled myself. (Entirely possible, but I actually hadn’t – this time.)

Anyway, about half-way through our jaunt, as we passed under the Key Bridge, I realized that my thumb was burning. And I looked, only to establish that I’d developed – and popped – a pretty wicked blister from holding the paddle incorrectly. To prevent any further damage, I started holding my thumb like I was hitchhiking, which seemed to work.

When we got home, I wrapped a bandaid around my thumb, using it to cover the blister so it didn’t burn every time wind or water hit it. Apparently I applied the bandaid too tightly, however, because when I removed it three days later, I had a white band of wrinkled skin around my thumb.

I stared at it, thinking, “Is it possible that I screwed this up so badly I’ve picked up an infection and my thumb is going to fall off?” Of course not. But that’s where my head goes.

In fact, when Margaret and I had been on the river, I said, “What if we capsize?” She shook her head dismissively.

Then I said, “I think my mind naturally goes to far-fetched, worst-case scenarios. For example, the other day I was biking along the Potomac, and I thought, “Could I outrun a bobcat if one jumped out of the bushes?”

Margaret said, “Does DC even have bobcats?”

Me, “I have no idea. But that’s not the point. I like to be prepared and know what my odds are, in case it DOES happen.”

She shook her head again.

And I decided it was probably not the best time to ask how fast she thought she could paddle in the event that we had to outrun a large boat. Next time I’m going to let her take the back seat so I don’t see her head shaking.

How I pictured our kayaking experience...

How I pictured our kayaking experience…

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