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Eleven years into holy matrimony and there’s one thing I know for sure: You need to present an anniversary card.
It must be funny.
It must be given at breakfast on the exact day of your marriage.
It must accompany a review of the blissful event for your children that includes but is not limited to the retelling of one wedding attendant’s accidental plunge into a nearby lake.
While my rendition of The Soaked Groomsman is always met with cackles, I am utterly failing in the funny card department.
This year on August 12, the best I could do was to present my very worthy husband with a humorous birthday card edited by me in black Sharpie to read “Happy Anniversary.”
Believe me, I had tried hard to find just the right anniversary sentiment, but it appears the greeting card industry no longer values the institution of marriage.
Instead, you’ll find a focus on the Big Five life stages: Birth/Birthdays, Graduation, Weddings, Illness and Death.
The options for birthdays alone are nearly endless.
Consider that for $7.50, you can purchase a card complete with a computer chip that allows a watercolor ostrich to belt out Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” in honor of your step-niece’s sweet sixteen.
Or if you’re on a budget but need something special for your neighbor’s cat who is celebrating a decade’s worth of nine lives, you can spend $.99 on a puffy, glitter-enhanced goldfish card.
There are pictures of cartoon canines for your dog walker’s big day, talking wine bottles to celebrate a member of the Vinophile Club, half-naked models pumping iron to inspire your personal trainer on her 40th.
Recently, I spied a birthday card for “that special nurse as she turns 28.”
Meanwhile, there are few offerings for those of us who have, year after year—often for decades---loved, honored and cherished our spouses through sickness and health.
Those that do celebrate wedding anniversaries are limited. They showcase pastel birds carrying what appear to be tablecloths in their beaks. The saying is always something like “You’re my one true love…I’m glad we share the same nest.”
Sometimes, you’ll get lucky and find a card featuring a photo of two octogenarians drinking coffee at a kitchen table. The tag line might read “I’m so glad we can share our morning rituals together.”
If these are analogies for modern-day marriage, it’s no wonder that American society is seeing a decline in the number of couples who officially declare their commitment at the altar.
The truth is, many marriages are delightful—and delightfully funny. That’s why “Modern Family” won so many Emmys.
There are dozens of themes that emerge over the course of one year alone that could inspire the authors of greeting cards.
If there is a card for the owner of a deceased parakeet, there most certainly should be one that under the heading of “anniversary” that conveys “Thanks for taking that really expensive cruise with my mother and her obnoxious boyfriend.”
Or, how about a 3-D picture of a pack of frozen peas along with the saying “It was so thoughtful of you to pick up that extra bottle of Valium before the vasectomy reversal.”
Hallmark could take a real photo of a couple surrounded by their four small kids showcasing a gloved husband picking lice out of his wife’s hair with a three-inch comb. The message inside could declare, “No matter how many nits you have, I will always want to run my fingers through your hair.”
Even community obligations could take a rather romantic turn.
Just picture a middle-aged couple wearing matching church choir robes with the message “Under this polyester, I am hot for God…and for you. Happy anniversary, Honey.”
Even the inevitable catastrophes that bind married couples to one another are cause for celebration.
I’d suggest a caricature artist draw up a frazzled-looking husband and wife holding up broken pipes in an attic, a waterfall pouring through the roof behind them. The accompanying message could read “Even when it’s all gone to Hell, there’s no one I’d rather live in my SUV with than you, Dear! Happy Anniversary!”
Greeting card companies, take note: While weddings are important, making it to your anniversary every year is even more cause for celebration.
Just ask any couple that’s had a band of noisy squirrels roost in their chimney before their newborn’s bris.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
There Should Be an App for That
My new smart phone was supposed to be, well, smart.
Sure, I can download an app to translate whatever I'm reading into Gaelic.
And it's awfully handy to monitor the earthquake threat in neighboring states.
I furthermore find it interesting that I can track the load of bananas bound for my grocer as it moves North from Central America in an 18-wheeler driven by an illegal immigrant.
But if I were designing apps, I would do something practical--Momma practical.
Consider Cleat Finder.
Tap your smart phone once and a red beam would emerge, scanning each room for said sports gear. Upon locating it, the smart phone would beep then automatically dock your kid's allowance. (After all, why am I the one using my phone to find their stuff? Shouldn't they be held responsible?)
For an extra $5 per month, the app would convert to seek out missing Cub Scout socks, Brownie vests, ballet slippers and wayward lovies. Simply categorize your stuff with a quick snapshot and the phone would keep track of its whereabouts.
I'd pay a pretty penny for Snack Sargent, too.
This app would offer the sound of a rumbling belly 48 hours prior to any event to which I am scheduled to bring snacks. It would categorize the nutritional content of each item in my pantry, calibrate to consider how many and what type of food allergies were present in the group I'm feeding then suggest the most nutritious but least expensive option.
If you buy Snack Sargent, you'd get Consensus Chef for free.
This app would allow you to plug in your brood's culinary likes and dislikes then spit out menus every single child in your home would find palatable. It would further send you coupons for the necessary ingredients. And recipes.
Next on my list would be Pants on Fire.
When my kids get into an inevitable he-said-she-said, I could scan their lips with my phone. Immediately, it would alert me to the child who started whatever it was so I could fairly discipline the offender.
I think Lice Locator would also be a hit.
The moment your second grade teacher sends home news of an infestation, simply hold your phone up to your offspring's mop and scan away with the provided blacklight. Should your phone find critters, a pop-up will notify you of nearby pharmacies that have medications in stock. It will also flash a photo of the neighborhood kid that should no longer sleep over.
Many mothers of toddlers would appreciate Pee-Pee Princess.
This app would tell you with the sound of raindrops when your baby has to go. That means you could get into the proper potty position before you miss the Moment of Realization.
I might even splurge on Daily Dishwasher.
This app would keep track of which spouse last scrubbed the pots and pans. It would alleviate any arguments over whose turn it is to scrape the nasty scrambled eggs off the cast iron skillet.
The guys at the apps store sure have a lot of work to do.
Until then, my smart phone will remain in my back pocket. I'd turn it on, but I'm too busy looking for lost cleats.
Sure, I can download an app to translate whatever I'm reading into Gaelic.
And it's awfully handy to monitor the earthquake threat in neighboring states.
I furthermore find it interesting that I can track the load of bananas bound for my grocer as it moves North from Central America in an 18-wheeler driven by an illegal immigrant.
But if I were designing apps, I would do something practical--Momma practical.
Consider Cleat Finder.
Tap your smart phone once and a red beam would emerge, scanning each room for said sports gear. Upon locating it, the smart phone would beep then automatically dock your kid's allowance. (After all, why am I the one using my phone to find their stuff? Shouldn't they be held responsible?)
For an extra $5 per month, the app would convert to seek out missing Cub Scout socks, Brownie vests, ballet slippers and wayward lovies. Simply categorize your stuff with a quick snapshot and the phone would keep track of its whereabouts.
I'd pay a pretty penny for Snack Sargent, too.
This app would offer the sound of a rumbling belly 48 hours prior to any event to which I am scheduled to bring snacks. It would categorize the nutritional content of each item in my pantry, calibrate to consider how many and what type of food allergies were present in the group I'm feeding then suggest the most nutritious but least expensive option.
If you buy Snack Sargent, you'd get Consensus Chef for free.
This app would allow you to plug in your brood's culinary likes and dislikes then spit out menus every single child in your home would find palatable. It would further send you coupons for the necessary ingredients. And recipes.
Next on my list would be Pants on Fire.
When my kids get into an inevitable he-said-she-said, I could scan their lips with my phone. Immediately, it would alert me to the child who started whatever it was so I could fairly discipline the offender.
I think Lice Locator would also be a hit.
The moment your second grade teacher sends home news of an infestation, simply hold your phone up to your offspring's mop and scan away with the provided blacklight. Should your phone find critters, a pop-up will notify you of nearby pharmacies that have medications in stock. It will also flash a photo of the neighborhood kid that should no longer sleep over.
Many mothers of toddlers would appreciate Pee-Pee Princess.
This app would tell you with the sound of raindrops when your baby has to go. That means you could get into the proper potty position before you miss the Moment of Realization.
I might even splurge on Daily Dishwasher.
This app would keep track of which spouse last scrubbed the pots and pans. It would alleviate any arguments over whose turn it is to scrape the nasty scrambled eggs off the cast iron skillet.
The guys at the apps store sure have a lot of work to do.
Until then, my smart phone will remain in my back pocket. I'd turn it on, but I'm too busy looking for lost cleats.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Where are all the mommas?
From the Dallas Morning News, September 17, 2011
Julie Blair: Where are all the mommas? At Target, of course.
Photo: Evans Caglage / Staff Photographer
The stranger in aisle E31 had definite opinions about the size of my family. After surveying my three kids, she suggested I try for a fourth child. Doing so would eliminate the odd-man-out syndrome and “complete the set.” Even numbers are key for family harmony, she explained.
While I might have felt such a discussion was intrusive had it taken place at, say, a dinner party or a church function, this was Target. And it was Hot Momma Hour. So instead of being offended, I gave her take serious consideration.
These types of intimate conversations can be heard throughout the store between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. Go on any day during this time slot and you’ll find dozens of mommas with their broods who’ve made the pilgrimage to the big box. They go not only for groceries but also in search of something more important: community.
The Target at FM2499 and Chin Chapel Road in Flower Mound has become a de facto country club for those of us staying at home with our children. It’s a place to find exactly what we need between the often lonely rituals of laundry duty and dishes. You can stock up on opinions about preschools, swim instructors and dance companies.
If you need to kvetch about nap schedules — or the lack thereof — you can do that, too. All you have to do is make eye contact with another woman who looks equally exhausted.
Moreover, you can go early: The store opens at 8 a.m., which feels like the middle of the day for those of us who’ve been awake since 5 a.m.
“I go to Target to find people like me,” said my gal pal Christine who lives in Flower Mound and often totes her twins to the store. “When my girls were little, I went in the early morning because I knew I’d always find other stay-at-home moms.”
While our town has a gorgeous, well-used community center and neighborhoods packed with young families with whom to play, Target offers an alternative.
The climate is a steady 73 degrees and fully shaded — you can’t say that for even the most engaging subdivisions.
Moreover, there is no need to clean up the playroom for company or even to brew a pot of coffee — you can get your fix at the Target Starbucks cafe.
My girlfriend Holly, also from Flower Mound, has gone so far as to take her husband and three boys to Target for a weekly play date on Sundays. There’s always something new for them to do in the toy aisle and friends to chat with, she said.
“It’s like religion,” Holly said, “except Target.”
If I were a glass-half-empty type, I would condemn the Target scene as evidence of a culture of consumption, a sad commentary on soulless suburbs designed for cars rather than connection.
Instead, I see the Hot Momma Hour as refreshing: It is a showcase of the strength and ingenuity of the human spirit in an age of technology.
Despite Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter, despite drive-throughs and takeout, despite snarling highways and the absence of parks that keep us from one another, we remain committed to honest-to-God human contact.
We will still seek out and find the community we crave.
That, and a good deal on paper towels.
Julie Blair of Flower Mound is a freelance journalist and a Community Voices volunteer columnist. Her address is onehotmama10153@yahoo.com.
Julie Blair: Where are all the mommas? At Target, of course.
Photo: Evans Caglage / Staff Photographer
The stranger in aisle E31 had definite opinions about the size of my family. After surveying my three kids, she suggested I try for a fourth child. Doing so would eliminate the odd-man-out syndrome and “complete the set.” Even numbers are key for family harmony, she explained.
While I might have felt such a discussion was intrusive had it taken place at, say, a dinner party or a church function, this was Target. And it was Hot Momma Hour. So instead of being offended, I gave her take serious consideration.
These types of intimate conversations can be heard throughout the store between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. Go on any day during this time slot and you’ll find dozens of mommas with their broods who’ve made the pilgrimage to the big box. They go not only for groceries but also in search of something more important: community.
The Target at FM2499 and Chin Chapel Road in Flower Mound has become a de facto country club for those of us staying at home with our children. It’s a place to find exactly what we need between the often lonely rituals of laundry duty and dishes. You can stock up on opinions about preschools, swim instructors and dance companies.
If you need to kvetch about nap schedules — or the lack thereof — you can do that, too. All you have to do is make eye contact with another woman who looks equally exhausted.
Moreover, you can go early: The store opens at 8 a.m., which feels like the middle of the day for those of us who’ve been awake since 5 a.m.
“I go to Target to find people like me,” said my gal pal Christine who lives in Flower Mound and often totes her twins to the store. “When my girls were little, I went in the early morning because I knew I’d always find other stay-at-home moms.”
While our town has a gorgeous, well-used community center and neighborhoods packed with young families with whom to play, Target offers an alternative.
The climate is a steady 73 degrees and fully shaded — you can’t say that for even the most engaging subdivisions.
Moreover, there is no need to clean up the playroom for company or even to brew a pot of coffee — you can get your fix at the Target Starbucks cafe.
My girlfriend Holly, also from Flower Mound, has gone so far as to take her husband and three boys to Target for a weekly play date on Sundays. There’s always something new for them to do in the toy aisle and friends to chat with, she said.
“It’s like religion,” Holly said, “except Target.”
If I were a glass-half-empty type, I would condemn the Target scene as evidence of a culture of consumption, a sad commentary on soulless suburbs designed for cars rather than connection.
Instead, I see the Hot Momma Hour as refreshing: It is a showcase of the strength and ingenuity of the human spirit in an age of technology.
Despite Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter, despite drive-throughs and takeout, despite snarling highways and the absence of parks that keep us from one another, we remain committed to honest-to-God human contact.
We will still seek out and find the community we crave.
That, and a good deal on paper towels.
Julie Blair of Flower Mound is a freelance journalist and a Community Voices volunteer columnist. Her address is onehotmama10153@yahoo.com.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
MommaSpeak
My dear friend Christina and I haven't spoken a full sentence to one another in ages.
In fact, now that I think about it, I'm not sure we've ever rendered a full conversation during the entire course of our wonderful three-year-long friendship.
It isn't that we don't have anything to discuss. We've got six children ages seven and under between us, so there's a lot of mention. Yet, the kids are the crux of the communication problem: Someone always needs something so we're constantly interrupted.
Lucky for us, our language skills have evolved as our kids have grown.
Just as those who text or tweet have developed emoticons and shorthand, Christina and I--like millions of Hot Mommas across the world--dispense with traditional language and lapse into MommaSpeak when we're together.
For example, instead of verbally greeting one another, one of us hands the other a Diet Coke.(Light ice, preferably 32 cold ounces but a warm can discovered rolling around the wheel well of the car will do.)
There is no need to inquire as to how the other's afternoon has gone. I can eyeball the number of bags in Christina's hand and tell if the day has been calm or zany. (One baby bag and clasped purse means that everyone slept well the previous night; multiple Target disposables brimming over with stuff, an errant beach towel wrapped around the neck, two pairs of sunglasses perched on her head means otherwise; an unescorted preschooler holding a Mastercard and car keys assures things are dire.)
With small talk taken care of, we jump right in to important issues.
We speak at the exact same time and in fragments for brevity.
Christina: "...mother-in-law dyed her hair pink which she says accentuate her new tattoo..."
Me: "...decided to build a beach in the baby's bedroom complete with sand..."
Christina: "..ended up roller skating through all that puke..."
Me: "...left for a job in Vietman for six weeks and has no internet access..."
Christina: "...stood on top of the ladder balancing four cans of mushroom soup..."
Me: "...found two albino hamsters running through the pipes in the kitchen..."
Christina: "...hot-wired the toaster in an attempt to curl Barbie's hair..."
Me: "...fed the neighbor's retriever the whole box of enemas..."
The diaglogue is dispensed with such speed that no U.S. military decoder could decipher it.
Christina: "...gottheearplugsstuckinsidethetoilet!"
Me: "...putthecarinreverseinsteadofdrive..."
Furthermore, our discussions are often yelled to one another. That's because we're often not in the same room at the same time and/or we need to be heard over the din.
In addition, our dialogues are interspearsed with the disciplining of a brood member.
Christina: "...locked himself in the cupboard...Mattie, please put the scissors down...before the physician could get into the room..."
Me: "...said she didn't want to do the math problem...William do not put underwear on the baby's head...before she ate the paste."
Our conversations, like most MommaSpeak, usually has an abrupt ending.
Sometimes we say goodbye. Other times, we just chase a child to the potty/car/dangerous precipice.
With the rules of MommaSpeak in play, it's all understood.
In fact, now that I think about it, I'm not sure we've ever rendered a full conversation during the entire course of our wonderful three-year-long friendship.
It isn't that we don't have anything to discuss. We've got six children ages seven and under between us, so there's a lot of mention. Yet, the kids are the crux of the communication problem: Someone always needs something so we're constantly interrupted.
Lucky for us, our language skills have evolved as our kids have grown.
Just as those who text or tweet have developed emoticons and shorthand, Christina and I--like millions of Hot Mommas across the world--dispense with traditional language and lapse into MommaSpeak when we're together.
For example, instead of verbally greeting one another, one of us hands the other a Diet Coke.(Light ice, preferably 32 cold ounces but a warm can discovered rolling around the wheel well of the car will do.)
There is no need to inquire as to how the other's afternoon has gone. I can eyeball the number of bags in Christina's hand and tell if the day has been calm or zany. (One baby bag and clasped purse means that everyone slept well the previous night; multiple Target disposables brimming over with stuff, an errant beach towel wrapped around the neck, two pairs of sunglasses perched on her head means otherwise; an unescorted preschooler holding a Mastercard and car keys assures things are dire.)
With small talk taken care of, we jump right in to important issues.
We speak at the exact same time and in fragments for brevity.
Christina: "...mother-in-law dyed her hair pink which she says accentuate her new tattoo..."
Me: "...decided to build a beach in the baby's bedroom complete with sand..."
Christina: "..ended up roller skating through all that puke..."
Me: "...left for a job in Vietman for six weeks and has no internet access..."
Christina: "...stood on top of the ladder balancing four cans of mushroom soup..."
Me: "...found two albino hamsters running through the pipes in the kitchen..."
Christina: "...hot-wired the toaster in an attempt to curl Barbie's hair..."
Me: "...fed the neighbor's retriever the whole box of enemas..."
The diaglogue is dispensed with such speed that no U.S. military decoder could decipher it.
Christina: "...gottheearplugsstuckinsidethetoilet!"
Me: "...putthecarinreverseinsteadofdrive..."
Furthermore, our discussions are often yelled to one another. That's because we're often not in the same room at the same time and/or we need to be heard over the din.
In addition, our dialogues are interspearsed with the disciplining of a brood member.
Christina: "...locked himself in the cupboard...Mattie, please put the scissors down...before the physician could get into the room..."
Me: "...said she didn't want to do the math problem...William do not put underwear on the baby's head...before she ate the paste."
Our conversations, like most MommaSpeak, usually has an abrupt ending.
Sometimes we say goodbye. Other times, we just chase a child to the potty/car/dangerous precipice.
With the rules of MommaSpeak in play, it's all understood.
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