The apples don't fall far from the tree...

Dear kiddos,

It may come as a complete surprise to you, but when it comes to your antics and manipulation, I'm on to you.

I know you spend minutes, if not hours, coming up with your excuses and drama and thinly-veiled lies misdirections and omissions in an effort to put your dad and I "off the scent", but we're on to you.

I know you think that MacGyver and I are dumb, if not completely stupid, and just "don't get it", but we've been there and done that.

It's truly amazing how every generation thinks they're smarter and more cunning than their parents and/or grandparents.  That somehow the youngest generation has finally cracked the mysteries of the brain and it's psychology, and that they can pull the proverbial wool over their parents' eyes.

Yeah.  Right.

Now, I'm fully aware of the fact that I was once part of that youngest generation of misbehaving miscreants that thought they were so genius.  That my parents didn't know that I sneaked out of my room through the window and down the pine tree out front whenever I was sent to my room for whatever evil misdeeds I committed (sassing back, hitting my brother, being a general ten-year-old a**hole) and ran over to my BFF's house claiming parental abuse for being locked in my room.  It never actually occurred to me, until I had children of my own, that my mom was perfectly aware of what I did and where I was.  She was just happy to have some freaking peace and quiet in the house.  It never dawned on me that there was a "mommy brigade" that would have called my mom and said "hey, did you know Christine was over here?" and that my mom probably said "who cares--I'm on my last nerve because of her.  Wanna keep her until she's 18?"

But now, I have a whole new appreciation for my mom (and dad) and what they put up with for all those years with my brother and me.  Mostly me.  I was always the one that pushed the envelope.  The one that found everyone's last nerve and set it on fire.  Speaking of fire, I was really pretty good with matches--and the ability to torch many a bridge in my time.

So now, it is any surprise that I have kids that do the same to me?

The Drama Queen puts on award winning performances on an hourly basis around here.  The Wild Man leaves a trail of legos and Star Wars figurines like Hansel and his bread crumbs.  And said bread crumbs inevitably find their way to the wicked witch in the forest, screaming that someone is ruining her house (yes, that would be me).

I need look no further than the nearest, probably dusty, mirror to find out where they get their "quirks".  That talent for drama comes directly from me.  The trail of crap in their wake--I can't count the number of times my mom yelled at me for my junk around the house.  One time, she scooped it all up and threw it on the back porch to be swept away by the wind and the neighborhood dogs.  I'm starting to think she was onto something, there...

And the slamming and locking of doors?  Yep--my genes.  The ability to break the locks on almost any door, unless it's dead-bolted?  Where, dear DQ, do you think you got that from?  I know you think you have a singular, special talent (which is exactly why MacGyver and I have a second inside lock a la "Modern Family" on our bedroom door), but I'm sure your grandparents can tell you a heap of stories involving me, a credit card, and a spam key.  And, that my talent came in handy more than once when we were locked out of our house.

It's both funny as hell, and irritating as crap, to see your own quirks come out in your kids.  The lies ("I didn't do that!" "It's not mine!" "It's not my fault!") and the manipulations ("I feel so sick today, mommy.  I need to stay home in bed and sleep and snuggle with you.") are the same I used on my parents, and they used on there's, all the way back to the Neanderthal munchkins claiming they didn't eat the last piece of mammoth pie before dinner, or that it's not their fault the paint on the cave drawings are smeared--their little brother did it, not them.  Of course, the cave-moms weren't able to scream "I have a fingerprint kit, and I know how to use it!  If I find one scrap of your DNA on this wet paint, I'm raiding your college fund for money to pay for my nervous breakdown!!!!!!"

No.  I've never said that. (Ahem....)

So, this year, I vow to try to stop yelling and getting so frustrated with the DQ and the WMB when they push my buttons with the very buttons I installed in them.  To try to remember that I did the same things when I was little, and that someday they will have kids that drive them to the brink of insanity by doing the exact same things they're torturing me with today.  And, I will no doubt tell them the same thing I heard many, many years ago...

"One day, I hope you have kids just like you!"

And, like I did to my own mom many many times since, they'll grow up, have kids, and say---

"I'm sorry, mom.  I'm so so sorry...."

And, just like my mom, I'll just smile and say "Too late.  Too late..."

"Hipster" Glasses

A few months ago, it came to my attention that I couldn't see the TV very well.  Now, I tried the argument that I couldn't see the ticker tape at the bottom of MSNBC (oh, who am I kidding?  Fine--I'll admit it.  It was Bravo...) because our television was too small.  Then, I argued that if we had a flat-screen HDTV, I would be able to see it just fine.  But that would involve building built-ins (see--I had a plan...) and upgrading our cable package.  I even tried rearranging the living room furniture so the sofa was closer to the TV.

Then, I realized the problem was me.

In my efforts to keep the rest of the family up to date with well-child visits, dentist appointments,  flu shots, swimming lessons, and hearing/vision screenings, I kind of forgot about myself.  Until I tried to get a refill on my contacts and I was told it had been "several years" since I was in, and I needed a new exam before I could get another refill on my prescription lenses.

Several years?  Seriously?  I mean, it couldn't have been that long ago!!  I distinctly remember coming in just a few months ago.  I remember it clearly since my doctor's wife had just had their first child, and the proud daddy had the baby pictures up in the office.

"Yes ma'am.  The 'baby' is 3 1/2 now."

Yikes!!!!

So, I make my appointment and discover, to my delight, that my prescription hasn't changed a bit.  See!  I told you I needed a new TV!  It wasn't me!  It was just the poor quality of our cable connection and the obvious need for an upgrade!

Yep--I needed an upgrade.  But it wasn't for the TV.

What had apparently happened is I had the same prescription for my contacts, but my prescription for my glasses was old.  Like, 5-6 years old.  I must have decided not to change the lenses in my glasses because of  some misguided desire to "save a few bucks" since I only rarely wore my glasses.  At home.  Preferably, in the dark.

(Yes, I have some "small" issues left over from late-childhood/early adolescence that involves glasses with the Pink Panther on the side.  Followed by the glasses that were bright purple.  I thought I was so cool....)

Anywho--I told the lady behind the glasses desk to just put the new lenses in my glasses.  "Sorry, but the lenses for your prescription are too thick for these frames.  You'll have to choose new frames."

What!!!!  Those frames are practically new!  They're hardly worn!!

Fine, I told her, just get me a pair that looks like these and cram the damn lenses in.

             <<<sound of crickets>>>

"Ah, we don't carry frames like this much anymore.  We keep them in the back for the more mature crowd."

"Excuse me?  'More mature' crowd?  You mean, like 40 year olds?"

Nope.  She meant, elderly.

Great.  Just great.  I have the style sense of a 90 year old....

So, next came the grand procession of what I considered "hipster frames".  I was sweating profusely, just imagining the snickers from my buddies at the bus stop.  Every pair I tried caused me to have an overwhelming desire to quote obscure poetry, listen to indie bands, or request a free-trade, organic green coffee with pasture raised soy milk.

Panicked, I started asking everyone in the whole office if I looked like I came off the set of "Portlandia".  These frames were too dark!  Too square!  Too modern!

Holy crap.  I was having a full mid-life crisis in the opticians office.

Finally, I just told the girl behind the counter (because, although a few years older than me, she was cute and stylish and her glasses looked adorable--she was "psychologically" a girl.  And I was psychologically a dinosaur.) to just choose a pair that I looked decent in (and didn't cost as much as my mortgage payment) and just order them.  I bought them sight unseen--figuring I never go out in public in them anyway, so who cared?

She assured me they weren't "hipster" (that hipsters had moved on to the Buddy Holly look, not the rectangular look, years before), and that they really did need to be darker than my hair.  Thus, bright purple was out.  Cringing, I signed the receipt.

I mean, really--what's the worst that could happen?  If they were truly terrible, I could get another pair.  In a decade or so....

So, I'm more than a little stunned when I picked them up and tried them on for the first time.  I could see!!!  I could read!!!  And, I didn't look like a complete idiot!!!  I might even consider wearing them at the bus stop.  Or, heaven forbid, the grocery store!

So, I'm wearing them that night while I'm making dinner and MacGyver comes home.

"Oh geez--you got a pair of those stupid hipster glasses everyone has these days!"

Gee.  Thanks.

At least they didn't have Pink Panthers on the side.