The Meddling Media

I love gossip as much as the next girl… when someone leaves a copy of US weekly or People in the loo at work, I will admit to occasionally taking a bit longer than needed to do my business so I can get a glimpse of Mariah Carey’s ridiculous nursery or Oprah’s changing looks through the years. But I have to draw the line between those who choose to be public figures and those who do absolutely nothing purposefully in the interest of becoming the subject of a media frenzy.

I’m talking, of course, about Ahhhhnold’s love child.  Isn’t this really about the Governator’s bad behavior and NOT about a 14 year old kid? So why did we need to track down the woman involved? Why isn’t it enough to know that he did this thing to his OWN already public family? I feel terrible for his children (all of them, wherever they may be) and his wife — but that’s nothing compared to how I feel about the 14 year old boy who never asked to be made a public figure in this way. He can’t help who his parents are and he certainly isn’t at fault for the way he was conceived. He is undoubtedly already struggling with the difficulties of being 14 — he hardly needs the added scrutiny, pressure and gossip. I’m sure he gets plenty of that at school.

The media often also offers tainted views of our military men and women’s actions overseas. My husband was on the ground in Iraq with a battalion that had an implanted journalist who did a hatchet job on several of the young Marines he pretended to be friends with as soon as he had a controversial idea that would make for a sensational story. I am all for the public seeing the war up close and personal, but I’m not sure there is ever a way to convey to an extremely judgmental public the realities that our warfighters face on a daily basis. That topic is an entire can of worms that I’m not going to open all the way (just popped the lid to let a worm or two squiggle out I guess). But is asking the media to cover ACTUAL NEWS just outside the realm of possibility? Puh-lease?

That’s what he said…

Life with a Marine can be interesting. Not only do I get to tour some extremely scenic locations (uh, yeah, this is sarcasm, folks!), but I have picked up quite a vocabulary! Unfortunately, not only do I live with one Marine who uses some colorful language from time to time, but I work with a few too. As a result, I’ve picked up some phrases — we’ll call them “Majorisms” that I thought I’d share. Ten points if you can use them all in one day after reading this.

1) Regarding something that won’t be well received: “That oughta go over like a fart in church.”

2) Regarding someone who appears to have had better days: “He looked like a bag of smashed a**holes.”

OR

3) “…looks like he got beat with a bag of nickles.”

And my favorite:

4) Best used to explain how little you care about something: “I don’t give two squirts of piss about that.”

I’m sure there are more… I will do a better job making mental notes when The Major offers new ones up (which I swear he does almost every day).

One…. Two… Two and a half…

This is a real book… maybe it has an answer.

I used to substitute teach preschool when I was earning my teaching credential (which I never used… this is one of about a gazillion jobs I’ve had in my life … that will be another post for another day…) As a result, I believed that I really liked young children and that I had scads of patience and would therefore be one of those very composed and put together mommy-types who did not need to scream at their children to get their point across.

I was wrong.

My temper is vertically challenged. It’s shorter than Tatoo on Fantasy Island. It’s shorter than the smallest member of the Lollypop Gang. It’s… well, you get it. I’ve got nothing but more jokes about dwarves and little people and really, that just isn’t all that nice. Nor is it the point of this post.  The point is that I have found myself literally shaking in an effort to avoid doing something to Turbo that will scare him so badly that he will hate me for the rest of both our lives. I am working on this, I really am. That being said, I haven’t done that thing yet (not sure what that thing really is… I’m not gonna find out, I promise). But I have tried lots of other things in an attempt to get the little monster to step back in line. The worst thing is that Turbo has what I have decided is a nervous habit. When he is in a lot of trouble and is most likely uncomfortable and slightly scared because mommy’s face is turning crimson and spit is flying out of her mouth as she yells at him, he does the worst thing he could possibly do. He laughs. And if you’ve ever been pissed at a 3 year old, and find yourself telling ’em how it’s gonna be, the last thing you’re going for is to make them laugh. Be silent? Yes. Tremble in fear of my sinister sounding mommy-threats? Oh yes. But laugh? No.

I’ve done things in efforts at discipline that have mostly come to no fruitful conclusion. Probably the best example is when, not a half mile from our house, Turbo was doing something — of course now I have no clue what it was — that led me to offer the lamest threat that my parents ever used, “Don’t make me pull this car over!” Well, he did. And I did. And then I had no bloody idea what to do. I pulled over, braked hard and jumped out, furious. And then I stood there wondering what parents are supposed to do once they’ve pulled the car over. The best I could come up with was to open his door and get my face right in his tiny face (which did look scared at this point) and tell him to cut. it. out. It actually did work. But I hate feeling like I’ve working  a plan with no idea how it’s supposed to turn out.

My greatest parenting tool (which will reveal how utterly clueless I am at this) is to count slowly to three. What is weird is that it usually works. It’s even starting to work with Lunchbox. They do something crappy, I give them the look, issue my warning and then start counting, and whatever it is usually stops before three. My mom was in town one day when I had reason to count, and she leaned over and whispered, “What happens at three?” I was honest with her. “Mom, I haven’t got a clue.”

So, what happens at three? Anyone? Anyone?

Fighting the good fight

Like lots of moms in their thirties (I thought about adding a modifier there, but “late” just makes me sound almost dead, so we’ll leave it alone), I am fighting the battle of the ever-expanding waistline.  I shouldn’t make it sound like this is something I’m focused on only as a result of being a mom (though 2 pregnancies definitely added to the struggles). I’ve been focused on the physical — probably far more than is healthy — since I was a kid. I was a ballet dancer all through school, missing lots of school stuff for rehearsals and performances, and taking classes every day after school into the late evenings.  Which meant that I spent a lot of time in a leotard and tights, comparing my body to the bodies of others. And if the scrutiny had been only my own, I might be somewhat healthier, but I had a ballet teacher who taught with a long black cane, and asked questions like, “been in the cookie jar again, have we?” I’d get home and my dad would refer to me as “chubs” whenever he found me eating (I actually think he may have some fairly unhealthy attitudes about food, but that’s another story).  Anyway, add it all together and I had no clear picture of what I looked like. Now that I look back at photos from those years, I can see that I was perfectly healthy and pretty thin.  College brought ups and downs with weight — I quit dancing and struggled with having no physical outlet and gained and lost 10 or 15 pounds.  By my senior year, I’d found the gym and replaced ballet with step aerobics and treadmills.  The photos from college vary, in some I’m thin, in some I’m chubby.

As an adult, I knew that I needed to work out as a sanity insurance policy, and that has helped keep things steady for the most part. I actually became a personal trainer for a while and keep my certification current though I don’t train clients at this point (because of my “real” job, which annoyingly seems to take up quite a lot of time.) So I know how I should be eating and how to get myself in shape when things have slipped. And sometimes now I think that maybe my distorted vision has gone the other way. I’ve looked in the mirror recently and thought, “not bad,” when the swimsuit shopping experience, complete with double “check-out-your-own-ass” mirror says otherwise.

As a result of the swimsuit shopping experience, I’ve had a bit of a talk with myself, and seeing as how I’m still here after the rapture occurred and all, I think I’ve got till around October to get myself into a bit firmer shape. (Isn’t October when the rest of us, those who didn’t get “saved” yesterday are supposed to be taken to hell? Well, it’s hot in hell and I’m sure I’ll want to wear shorts, so I’d like to look good in them…)

And this long drawn out stream of consciousness boredom you are experiencing is nothing more than my way of mentioning that I’m trying to work out more often and eat better. So you may be hearing about that at times. Apologies in advance. And the eating part will have to start tomorrow, since we just arrived home from a sushi and Baskin Robbins feast. Tomorrow, look out!