Beware

Sure he looks cute, but behind the chubby cheeks and sparkling baby blues lies an opportunist. This little slickster will notice the pantry door slightly open and while you spend five seconds checking your email account, he'll slyly snag a box of Rice Krispies from the shelf and sprinkle every last crisp across the kitchen floor.

Snap.

Crackle.

Stoooooooooop!

Wait, what was I saying?

Monday is President's Day and Girlie is out of school. She was off last Monday too. But wait, you ask, why two Mondays in a row?

Let me explain. That is, if I can remember what I was starting to tell you. Oh yeah. President's Day.

Since the birth of my second child it seems like I can't remember ANYTHING anymore. I have always been a pretty sharp minded kind of gal. Now, I can't survive without writing everything down. And it goes double for my long term memory. Facebook would be so much more fun if I could actually recall the name of that girl I roomed with sophomore year.

So, last Monday, I thought it was President's Day and loaded both kids in the car to head to the Children's Museum for a special President's Day event. We got there and the museum was closed. I sat there in the parking lot puzzled and then the school called. Was Girlie sick? I hadn't called in an excuse. Great. It wasn't President's Day. It was just Monday.

A few days ago I forgot the name of something so obvious that when I finally thought of it, I couldn't believe that I could not remember what it was called. I would totally make an example of it, but today I can't remember what it was.

You see?

I am guessing that the years of sleep deprivation have finally caught up with me (for the record, my kids are great sleepers, but I seem to have lost the skill). My girlfriend claims that it is the volume of things we have to remember once we have children. My past is being squeezed out with shoe sizes and Brownie schedules. I guess that would be fine if I got to choose the things I wanted to erase, like my senior prom date or that time in fifth grade when I cried in front of the whole class after losing the Junior Deputy election to my best friend Dawn.

I wonder if my memory will ever come back. Maybe I should start doing crosswords or some kind of brain exercises. Okay, I am writing that down right now.

Before I forget.

Like a fine wine...

A few weeks ago I visited a friend of mine in Baltimore. It is hard for both of us to believe, but we have been best friends for almost 20 years. She took me out to dinner one night and we had a fabulous meal while we hashed over the paths our lives had taken over the years.

Not wanting the night to end, we pulled into a cute little bar just around the corner from her house for a cocktail. When we got inside we realized that it was not a cute little bar, but a college bar crammed with children. Okay, not children like my little ones, but children in the sense that a few of them might have been born in the 90's. We didn't want to be dorks and leave, so we made our way up to the bar and ordered two beers. At some point, a guy included us in a round of shots he ordered for his girlfriend's 21st birthday. I pretended to drink mine, but stuffed the lemon into a mostly full shot glass. A few minutes later, a girl came up and started talking to us about how much older she felt than the rest of people in the bar. She was a grad student after all, and was 24. We told her our ages (36 & 37), and she swore she never would have guessed.

We finished our beers and left and had a really good laugh about it when we got back to my friend's place. Of course, we weren't young hipsters anymore, but we still had it.

When I got back to my own home a few days later, I shared the story with my husband. He laughed and said it reminded him of Athens, Georgia where I went to school at The University of Georgia. Thinking he was referring to the students, I agreed.

Then he said, "Yeah, I mean there were always one or two really old people at those bars. Remember? You knew they were too old to be there. It was so funny."

"S'cuse me? But the girl said she never would have guessed..."

Oh.

Happy Valentine's Day

Valentine's day is tomorrow and I've noticed around the blogosphere that most of you aren't feeling the love. While I am not exactly a Valentine's fanatic, I wouldn't categorize myself as a hater, either.

Girlie is in first grade and Valentine's day is a big deal to her. She made all of her cards this year herself with some red construction paper, crayons, and a few googly eyes. Everyone in the class got one, and a few of her besties got special notes and sparkly stuff. They'll be having a little party at school and to her nothing is more exciting than the prospect of sugary treats and small cups of juice with matching napkins. I think we all loved Valentines day as children.

These days though, it isn't really cool to love sappy things. Maybe it all starts in high school. If you didn't have a significant in your life, you were doomed to getting flowers and chocolates from your parents, or worse, none at all. The forced equality so important in elementary school is tossed aside and the cheese basically stands alone. I get that. Being a top member of the debate team (and a member of the science club, but I swear it was for my college applications), I didn't always have a guy on February 14th. Eventually, as adults, we scoff the commercialism and forced nature of a day meant to proclaim heartfelt feelings. We lose sight of the six year old with the red construction paper.

Somehow, in college, another slice of cheese and I found each other and have been together ever since. On Valentine's Day, I overlook the mounds of tacky proclamations. Though I am likely to be snarky about other things, I don't feel annoyed by the roadside rose stands. Now that we are old married folk, we usually avoid the pricey reservations and we don't always make a huge deal about it. But I never let it go by without a little something special for my guy. Maybe it's easier for me, I haven't been without a Valentine for 18 years!

Dear NPR

You and I go way back. I can remember listening to you as my Dad drove me to orthodontic appointments in middle school. At the time, I didn't understand your incessant droning on about the Soviet Union and some dictator in Latin America. I would beg my Father to change the channel so I could groove to Madonna or beat it with Michael. He did not, so I would take naps while a deep voice filtered in and out of my consciousness.

As an adult, you and I became reacquainted. Even though I have XM, I find myself tuning in on long car rides. I listen even when Diane Rehm is having a bad day and slowly pronounces her words like a drunk granny. I listen even when Neal Conan opens the discussion on steroids in baseball, again. If I am out running errands on the weekend, you can be sure I am dialed into Ira Glass. I have NPR.com saved on my list of home pages that appear every time I turn on my computer. I call in with donations during the fundraisers. Small ones, but dollars just the same. You make me feel in touch. Your stories are smart. You go against the grain of popular culture choosing to be intellectual instead of sensational.

Which is why I am horrified that you have recently begun picking up celebrity gossip. Today, I browse my home page to find a reference to Chris Brown, the rapper who allegedly assaulted his girlfriend just before the Grammys. If I want to read about Chris Brown, I will tune in to perezhilton.com. NPR, I want you to stay a little stuffy and above the fray. It's what makes you, well, you.

How will I ever torture my children if you start reporting on rappers and riff raff? Look, if it's about money, then just say so. I'll donate double during the next fundraiser. Think of what you can do with two hundred dollars!

Respectfully,
Mental Momma