Dear Snarky – Help! A Dad Thinks He’s Hilarious And Treats Rec Volleyball Games Like Open Mic Night

13704304_1381350658558248_1798505633_nDear Snarky,  

 A dad is ruining my 12-year-old daughter and her entire team’s rec volleyball experience. At games a parent volunteer from each team acts as an out-of-bounds judge and this dad always volunteers and acts like he’s Jimmy Fallon. He treats being on the court as a chance to be “hilarious.” 

 He makes faces, does hand stands, grabs the ball and acts like he’s pooping volley balls and just is an all around ass hat. Ha-ha right? 

 Not so much because it slows down play of the game and makes the game all about his ridiculous antics. It’s a total distraction away from volleyball. 

 Some parents have very nicely suggested he tone it down, but he just says, “The kids love it!” 

How do we get this clown to not make a kids’ volleyball game a comedy club?

 Signed Not Laughing,

Dear Not Laughing,

 Yikes, there always seems to be the one parent who needs to be the center of attention in a look at me, look at me way, but this sounds like an extreme case. Since the parent-to-parent approach hasn’t worked I suggest that a written schedule of parent judges be established and pre scheduled for each game that way the Dad Clown can either be 1) not scheduled or 2) scheduled very infrequently. 

 And for anyone that thinks that the dad is just having fun and everyone “should chill” because it’s a “rec game” to that I say there is a time and place for everything and if he’s slowing down and interrupting the game than I would feel zero guilt in if not exactly shutting him down than reining in his performance opportunities. 

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky, “21st Century Advice With An Attitude” email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or send me a PM on the Snarky FB page.😉

WTF – What The Fork?

69946600432112727_pxggnkvi_cAre table manners the product of a bygone era like eight track tapes and full coverage underwear?

I know most parents have or are raising their kids to embrace the basics like don’t talk with your mouth full, elbows off the table and please and thank you. But how many of us are still kicking it old school and teaching our children the ins and outs of what fork to use when?

I was the product of protocol classes (It was so ghastly that during the dinner manners portion of the course I wrote out in baby green leseur peas, “I hate my mother for making me do this.” Yep, I flunked.), cotillion dances and debutante bows and even I’m stumped when I see five forks at one place setting.

Quick, can you guess what each fork is for? Yeah, me neither. I had to look it up to refresh my memory. If you’re keeping score at home here’s the list: salad, fish, dinner, seafood and dessert. When I attempted to share this knowledge with my daughter she give me the side eye and asked, “Isn’t a seafood and fish fork redundant?

That question lead me to explain that I think the fish fork is for ocean creatures that swim and the seafood fork could be for the bottom dwellers like shrimp. To check my logic I went to Google where I got no clear answer, just more confusion because hello, there’s more freaking forks! Luncheon, pastry, lobster, snail, oyster, fruit, strawberry and even ice cream. WTF – What The Fork? As in who eats ice cream with a fork and I sense an intervention quality fork fetish going on.

If you already have a seafood and fish fork then why all the additional Little Mermaid collection of forks? The same logic can be used on the fruit and strawberry fork. Help me out here. A strawberry is still a fruit – right? (It’s not like the tomato that we all know and love and grew up with thinking it’s a vegetable and then – ta da – it’s now a fruit.) It’s too much. All this cutlery is enough to kill your appetite if it doesn’t bring on a migraine first.

Furthermore let’s be real – who’s eating that much bounty from the ocean in one meal (fish, seafood, oyster, shrimp, lobster) and not dying from mercury poisoning? What needs to happen is some fancy pants etiquette person and Kohl’s (or even Walmart, but I’m thinking I’d like to use my Kohl’s cash) should join forces and design a new cutlery collection for the holidays geared towards the way we live today.

As a way to get that party started here are my suggestions. Ditch all those fish forks and introduce one fork that does it all – the “big boy.” This fork will have tines so new and improved it can spear a puffed Cheeto with nary a fleck of cheese dust falling off. And if you’re thinking who eats Cheetos with fork to that I say – you do. This is 2016 and if you want to be classy (or maybe klassy) it’s all about fingers free.

The spoon will also get a makeover and resemble more of shovel with enhanced, curved sides because eating cereal for dinner isn’t just a lifestyle choice it’s a survival skill. With the spoon 2.0 you can ensure that you get the perfect amount of cereal to milk ratio with each bite.

Now, you might be thinking that the knife can’t be improved upon and you would be wrong. The knife’s girth would be increased so, in a pinch, it can also function as a spatula because if you’ve ever tried to cut a Chipotle chicken burrito with everything on it and attempted to eat it with some sense of decorum than you know that’s almost impossible. Now, all you have to do is use the “knife-tula” for precision cutting and scooping.

If you’re doubting my brilliance do me a favor. Tomorrow, as you’re eating Thanksgiving dinner and attempting to cut and pile some turkey atop your mashed potatoes ask yourself, “Wow, wouldn’t a knife-tula sure be helpful right now?”

 

 

Dear Snarky – Thank You Note Throwdown at Thanksgiving

Dear Snarky,real-feelings-thanksgiving-dinner-funny-ecard-fkn

 My two sisters and I are so angry that our niece has never written us thank you notes for the wedding presents we gave her that we are planning on staging a manners intervention on Thanksgiving.

 We feel like we have to do something because her mom, our sister, sure isn’t making sure her grown daughter writes them. What has happened to people’s manners? Who doesn’t write thank you notes for wedding presents?

 Our niece has to be told she’s failing her family and P.S. my mother would be rolling over in her grave to know that one of her granddaughters’ was that lazy and ungrateful.

 The only problem is my husband. He says it will ruin Thanksgiving. What do you think Snarky?

 Signed,  Manners Police Because Someone Has to Be the Bad Cop

 Dear Manners,

 Oh my, I feel like there is a whole lot more going on here than a wedding thank you note, like years of family drama and deep-rooted hostility.

 My short answer is ditch the intervention. I agree with your hubs it will, 100 %, ruin Thanksgiving and I’m getting the vibe that you and your sisters just might love drama and pot stirring.

 Now on the thank you note issue. I’m going to reverse my longstanding position on handwritten thank you notes. Are they awesome? You bet. Should you get your feelings hurt if you don’t get one to the point of creating family division? Um no.

 If you sent a gift than yes you need to know it was received, but I now think any expression of gratitude is fabulous. I would much rather receive a sweet text from my nephew with a photo of him holding my gift and blowing kisses than a generic four line thank you note card.  Yep, times have changed.

 As for your niece – let it go. If the lack of gratitude upsets you and your sisters that much than don’t get here anymore gifts. There’s a strong message about how you feel. But for the love of turkey and dressing don’t let a thank you note destroy your holiday because that “Manners Police” would be a humongous etiquette gaffe a thousand times worse than not writing a thank you note.

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky, “21st Century Advice With An Attitude” email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or send me a PM on the Snarky FB page.😉

 

Turkey Issues – The Struggle Is Real

We all have personal miles6cda45495482169ad2bdb2d9fe468866tones that signify we’ve crossed the road from child to adult. There’s the entry-level ones like getting off your parent’s cell phone bill plan and using those twenty percent off Bed, Bath and Beyond coupons because saving money has suddenly become very important.

Then there are the really big watershed moments like getting married and having children. For me one of my “hey you’re a grown woman” milestones was cooking a turkey for the very first time.

I’m not going to lie turkeys scare me in all forms – fresh, frozen and free range. Have you’ve ever seen a turkey up close and personal? I have and they’re jerks.

When I was growing up in Texas wild turkeys roamed around my neighborhood like they owned the place. They were the poultry version of mean girls. They would strut around with their cranberry congealed salad colored snood and wattle and give you what can only be termed as a very assertive and hateful gobble as if they were demanding your allegiance to their reign as poultry royalty.

I spent the better part of my childhood screaming and making sure I didn’t run afoul of fowl. I still believe to this day that the whole weirdo snood and wattle thing is a sign that aliens, somehow in this space-time continuum, hooked up with turkeys. (Alien/poultry crossbreeding – it could’ve happened, just saying.)

It didn’t help my gobble, gobble phobia when one Thanksgiving morning I witnessed my mother doing, what seemed to me at a very impressionable age, unspeakable things to a twenty pound Butterball. As I turned the corner into the kitchen I saw my mom scalding the turkey with hot water, then she started giving the bird a real beat down, going all Ali/Frazier circa 1975 on it.

As if that wasn’t enough after she stopped the brutality and took a few puffs on her Winston’s 100’s she stuck her hand, like her whole entire hand and wrist, into the turkey and begin ripping stuff out.

I don’t remember anything else after that. I either passed out or have repressed the traumatic memory. All I know is that after that I was on team “I never want to touch a turkey.”

I was able to stay on that team for years until I had a family with children and a husband that wanted a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving. Oh sure, I could have bought a ready-made turkey from a grocery store or even had my husband do the honors, but I had made the momentous decision that I was going to conquer my turkey fear and give in to the bird.

I started out by doing extensive research and discovered just why my mother, all those decades ago, was going WWF on a turkey. She had not sufficiently defrosted the Butterball and due to wanting her family to eat before midnight my mom had to resort to extreme thawing measures up to and including turkey water boarding with boiling water and poultry pugilistics.

Armed with this knowledge and wanting to stop my family’s cycle of culinary violence the first momentous decision I made was to go the fresh, not frozen turkey route. The second and much more troubling was deciding where to get the fresh turkey. All my earth mama friends, and by that mean women who would rather die than pack a Smuckers Uncrustable in their kid’s lunch, were all about the farm to table scene which is not as cozy and mason jar”ish” as it sounds.

Oh no, in regards to Thanksgiving dinner the term farm to table was very literal. As in you went to a farm and selected which turkey you wanted slaughtered for your holiday meal. I have a strict, never wavering, rule that I don’t ever want to know my protein before I eat it. No, how do you do’s, or eye contact should ever be made with anything that will someday be making a trip down my digestive track.

This is why after much soul-searching I went to Whole Foods and opted for one of their fresh turkeys. When I walked out of the store carrying my just purchased reusable grocery bag (because I felt like otherwise I would be judged “So Not Whole Foods Worthy”) laden with an organic fifteen-pound turkey, from a farm that thankfully I never had to visit, I felt grown up. I was an adult who was going to cook a turkey like a boss.

Once I got that bad boy home I was still energized and the next day I was ready to embark on part two on my adventure – baking the bird. Armed with Playtex kitchen gloves that went up to my elbow, I began the most perilous part of my journey skin-to-skin or, in my case, plastic glove-to-skin contact with the turkey.

screen-shot-2016-11-21-at-10-36-52-amYuck!

It was bad enough that I had to basically give the turkey a spa treatment in the sink, but when it came time to remove the giblets or whatever it’s called from the “body cavity” of the bird I had to take a break and let the waves of nausea pass. Finally, with the aid of kitchen forceps (aka salad tongs) I successfully delivered a packet of gunk from my turkey.

Next up was seasoning and while I could vigorously massage in pepper and thyme like a nail technician giving a salt scrub pedicure the one thing I couldn’t do, no matter how many pep talks I gave myself was the whole Hannibal Lecter procedure of burrowing under the turkey skin to add “flavor.”

According to the recipe I was to use surgical precision to separate layers of bird epidermis all in an effort to place pats of mustard chive butter and twigs of rosemary to “create a flavor profile” that was “bar none.” Was I cooking or honing serial killer skills?

I was this close to calling it quits, but instead decided to throw out Plan A – which was the fancy cookbook I was following on how to cook a turkey and go to Plan B – redneck. Oh yeah, I was going to stick the bird in a vat of oil and deep-fry that sucker.

This was my kind of recipe. It had three sentences. Put oil in a stockpot. Place turkey in oil. Fry. Never mind that also included with the instructions was a skull and crossbones symbol and dire warnings about the possibility of grease splatter catching you or your house on fire.

I got my biggest pot, poured what looked to be a gallon of cooking oil in it, turned the burner up and plunged the turkey into a hot tub of flammable liquid. Yes, there was splash back and I have a scar on my inner forearm from the kick back of poultry meeting Wesson oil causing what I’m sure was, at least, a second degree burn, but it was so worth it.

That Thanksgiving my turkey wasn’t close to perfect. (Parts of it were even charred, but I got around that by referring to it as “Cajun style” which I thought might amp up my kitchen cred.) But it didn’t matter because I felt wonderful. Not even the sight of my family burying the meat under their mashed potatoes or discreetly draping some squash casserole over a wing dampened my glow.

I had conquered my fear and I had never felt more grown up. Or quite possibly that could have been the wine and painkiller I had taken to deal with the agony from the burn talking. Whatever. The important thing is I did it and I never did had to do it again.

That’s right ten years and counting and I’ve never cooked another turkey. One and done! That’s the upside to being an adult sometimes you can do exactly what you want and this grown up said no to cooking anymore turkeys.

 

Gingey Love

s-l300When you’re young you think about the goals for your life and set high standards for what you what to achieve. Never did I imagine that one of the hardest goals I would face in deep middle age is not eating anymore Halloween candy.

It doesn’t help that my happy place is dreaming about cakes, cookies and cobbler. When I’m stressed, stuck in traffic or sitting in a meeting bored to the point of falling asleep it perks me up to let my mind roam to things like hot milk cake with caramel icing or a compote creeping crust cobbler.

Based on this personal history it’s a given that I would have an issue with saying no to sweets which is why I always buy Halloween candy I don’t like. This year though something happened. I rediscovered the wonder of the Milk Dud.

I have a vague memory of liking Milk Duds as a child, but only if the other candy choice was a Pixy Stix. This is why I felt safe buying a huge bag of assorted Kit Kats, Milk Duds and Almond Joys – a trio that I thought, didn’t do much for me. Until late on Halloween night when I opened up a mini box of Duds and had an epiphany. Milk Duds are magnificent.

I was a goner. That sweet, sassy, chewy caramel with a chocolate chaser was a sensory delight. I couldn’t get enough. By midnight I had probably consumed, okay I’m not telling you, it’s best that some things are kept private.

Let’s just say that I might have aggravated my carpal tunnels by all the mini boxes I opened. I reasoned that the excessive chewing required in consuming a Milk Dud might be like when you eat celery and all the jaw exertion cancels out the caloric content of the cruciferous veggie. Yeah, whatever, I know that’s wrong, but at midnight it sounded so right.

I had the Milk Dud fever bad. The next day I had to talk myself down from going into Target and buying more Halloween candy at 50% off. Finally, I had the strength to go cold turkey and white knuckle through a very arduous week of not eating candy. Then, just as I was pulling myself together and only thinking of Milk Duds, maybe 25 times a day, my husband ruined my life. He brought a man into our home and I fell in love. Head over heels, crazy in love.

The truly terrible part about all of this was that my daughter also shared the same feelings. Yes, shockingly we were both in love with same man. Don’t judge. This guy is a cutie and it doesn’t hurt that his backside is covered in white fudge icing. Yep, this mother daughter love triangle was with the Trader Joe’s Mini Gingerbread Man.

He’s perfect. The relationship starts off with a satisfying crunch, then your taste buds get the kick of a perfectly spiced gingerbread and it finishes with the velvety sweetness of the white fudge glaze.

It’s a taste bud extravaganza. Sadly, this mother/daughter romance for the gingerbread gentleman lead us to fight over who got him and in a desperate act of keeping “Gingey” only for me I absconded with the bag and locked myself in my bedroom.

Finally,  maternal instincts kicked in and I agreed to share – sort of. I had already hidden at least 10 of the guys in my closet. The next day when the bag was empty I told my husband that was it. No more gingerbread guys are allowed in our home.

I decided to put family first even though it’s killing me and sometimes I think I hear my gingerbread suitor calling for me. But, I can do this. I will do this, at least for this month. Once December hits all bets are off. I mean how can anyone go through Christmas without a gingerbread man?

Dear Snarky – Kill Me Now Because My Office Has “12 Days of Secret Santa”

Dear Snarky,screen-shot-2016-11-14-at-9-51-05-am

Hip, hip, hooray it’s not even Thanksgiving yet, but I’ve already gotten the instructions for the office “12 Days of Secret Santa.” I seriously want to hurl. The rule is no gift should be over $5, but since I work at suck up central everyone ignores that rule and goes over the top, for 12 whole days, with their gifts.

I need your help because I can’t afford to spend a bunch of money on my co-workers and I’m afraid this is going to kill me in the office politics game.

Signed, Scrooge

Dear Scrooge,

I have a couple of thoughts.

1) Take some vacation days during the Secret Santa extravaganza and use that as an excuse for not participating as in – “Wow I’d love to do this, but since I’m not going to be in the office the entire time I feel like it wouldn’t be fair to the Santa of it all.”

2) Do the Secret Santa and follow the rules. Give only gifts that don’t exceed $5 and trust me if you go on Pinterest you’ll discover a North Pole worthy list of ideas on how to do this with good cheer and thoughtfulness.

3) If you feel like you’re getting attitude for following the rules use it as the kick in the pants you need to find a new job and put that on your 2017 resolution list. Because if co-workers and management are getting their tinsel in a tangle because you didn’t treat the Secret Santa as an opportunity to kiss ass then you need out of that environment sooner than later. That’s not just a red flag it’s a sleigh dropping on your head telling you that you should run not walk to the land of updated resumes and your  LinkedIn page.

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky, “21st Century Advice With An Attitude” email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or private message me on my Snarky FB page.😉

I’m Fangry

I’m fangry. In fact, this is14925403_1829202370624681_9133056398365006827_n the worst case of fangry I’ve ever had and it’s really ticking me off. To pile on to my misery there is absolutely nothing I can do to alleviate or eliminate it besides getting an attitude adjustment and I’m going to tell you straight up that’s not going to happen. My fangry is too intense and all-consuming.

You see I’m suffering from Fall Angry known as “fangry” which is classified as a seasonal affective disorder. My fangry was brought on by the non-fall like temperatures that have robbed, yes robbed, me from enjoying my favorite season. I feel totally ripped off that we have had almost zero autumnal yumminess.

The fall should herald and embrace the 3 C’s – cool, crisp and cuddly. All we’ve gotten is Summer 2.0 and it reeks. As I write this I’m in a tank top and shorts in freaking November. And for all of you thinking “yay, high-five, this is so great” slow your roll because it’s none of the above.

Fall in the Midwest is a thing of glory. It’s God’s gift for enduring summer. It’s everything you want from a season. The temperatures drop, the humidity takes a holiday and goes to visit Texas, and you’re free, free at last, from the constant hum of your air conditioner. It’s a time to throw open your windows and let your neighbors hear you yell at your kids to rake the leaves.

You also get to mercifully cover up your arms and legs and swathe yourself in cozy sweaters that then allow you to eat loads of pumpkin cinnamon rolls because no one’s going to notice your fat layers in an “on trend” oversize chunky cable knit.

Fall is the season that gives you a hug and whispers, “It’s all going to be okay I’m here now.”

Except it’s not here and I’m ready to issue an APB. I’m not kidding. This is serious. Do you know what’s happening right now because fall has forsaken us or been abducted?

Let me answer that for you in no particular order of importance. My craving for pumpkin pie and/or bread is non-existent. For the first time in years I didn’t even buy a pumpkin candle from Bath and Bodyworks. Who in the hell wants to smell pumpkin when they’re sweating?

I still have all my begonias blooming and it just looks odd – begonias in November. If I wanted begonias in November I would live in Disneyland. (Not that I don’t love Disneyland, but 365 of the Magic Kingdom would be not so magical.)

My trees have barely lost any leaves, which means that in December, in the midst of all the holiday havoc, I’ll be doing hard time in the yard. Like I need raking leaves and bagging leaves  on my “to do” list.

Oh and Halloween was weird. Trick-or-treaters in shorts and flip-flops – ugh. It’s unseemly that’s what it was.

And two more words for you – oak mites. Those jerks, along with assorted gnats and flies, are still around ruining my life because we haven’t even gotten close to a hard freeze.

Then to turbo kick my fangry into Defcon 5 I’m being told that this weather trend probably means we’re going to have a mild winter and then record-breaking summer heat. Noooo!

That terrifying prognostication reminds me that I need to do a public service announcement. To everyone out there, most especially folks who broadcast the weather or coo the time and temp, it’s heartless of you to say in November, in the Midwest, that “it’s a beautiful 84 degrees out.” There is nothing the least bit attractive about running your A.C. in November.

The correct verbiage to use, in an effort to be sensitive to fangry sufferers everywhere, is that, “It’s 84 degrees and I’m sorry, very sorry.”

 

 

Dear Snarky – A Bunco Bitch is Ruining Our Group

Dear Snarkyscreen-shot-2016-11-07-at-9-23-42-am

Our Bunco group is about to be disbanded due to one former member, #buncobitch, having a temper tantrum because she was not invited back for next year.

The back-story is that this woman was a terrible addition to our group. She always flaked out at the last-minute from hosting Bunco, took the game way too seriously, like get mad and throw insults seriously, and turned into a bully, especially after her third cocktail.

This is why every single one of us chose to kick her out of the group for 2017. Now, all hell has broken loose and this woman is threatening legal action!

Do we stand up to her or disband because most of us don’t need or want this kind of headache over a dice game that was really an excuse to drink wine?

Signed, Scared of a Bunco Bitch

Dear Bunco,

By all means dramatically disband and do it with enough of a flourish that folks know your group is kaput. Then go Bunco 2.0 and get your original group back together with one new member and volia – problem solved. It’s a brand spanking new Bunco.

Yes you could fight this Bunco Bitch, but why bother? She’s cray. I mean who sues a Bunco group? I get it her feelings are hurt, but it’s Bunco, not alienation of affection in a divorce and furthermore where’s her pride? Who let’s their emo flag fly over Bunco?

And is there a Bunco board of directors and bylaws that are even legally binding? Um, I don’t think so. Maybe someone, who might still be on speaking terms with the Bunco B, should gently suggest that she start her own merry band of bunco buddies.

So, take the easy way out – disband, regroup, and enjoy the vino.

*If you have a question for Dear Snarky, 21st Century Advice With An Attitude,” email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com or private message me on my Snarky FB page.😉

We Don’t Talk Anymore

3b7a45b437019a9b1cc88a13044facb4We don’t talk anymore. We monologue. We interrupt. We lecture. I don’t know if it’s the fault of social media, our texting culture or if perhaps the lack of conversational finesse is the first sign of a Zombie apocalypse, but whatever it is it’s scaring me.

I couldn’t even watch the presidential debates or the vice presidential one off. I really, really tried, but all of them made me too anxious especially the butting in and talking over each other. For me it was like watching an overlay of every Real Housewives show in the franchise on full volume. Basically, an auditory dumpster fire.

What’s happened to the art of the conversation? I’m already a person who has a very rapid cadence. (My whole childhood I was told by my parents that it was okay to breath while speaking.) But now I find myself talking even faster and I think it’s because I want to finish my point, my story, or get to the punch line of whatever I’m yakking about before someone interrupts me.

On the flip side I’ve finished other people’s sentences in an effort to interject something besides a head nod into a conversation. And I’ve also been a “convo interruptus.” It’s usually my futile attempt to steer the topic in another direction or I like to think I’m mercifully helping someone wrap up his or her story.

Hmm, I don’t like where this is going. I’m part of the problem. What’s happened to my manners? Okay, let’s back track on this. Maybe it’s less about knowing how to converse and more about all of us being in madly in love with the sound of our own voice and for that I’m totally blaming Facebook. I think we all now talk in status updates.

Instead of a give and take of a conversation we’re all about blabbing how we think and feel with no room for anyone else to add their two cents. The problem is the other people you’re talking with also have their status updates to contribute so it’s like everyone is having separate conversations that if you’re lucky overlap at some point. It’s exhausting and boring.

Making it worse is that Facebook, I believe, has emboldened some people to feel like they’re freaking genius. Just because on your FB newsfeed there’s a space with the sentence “What’s on your mind?” Doesn’t mean that outside of your social media universe anyone else cares about your musings on politics, taxes or home remedies for hammertoes. Even if that musing got you five comments, one wow face, three hearts and 11 likes on your page.

No wonder there are people who have embraced a text only lifestyle where they only respond to text messages. Some have taken it a step further and abandon words altogether and only write in emojis.

Which is also scary because writing in emoji’s leads to talking in emojis. I heard a grown woman actually say during a work meeting “sad face.” Yes, she verbalized the sad face emoji which lead me to verbalizing WTH?

You know upon further review I think it’s not that we don’t know to converse anymore, it’s that we don’t know how to listen. A good conversation requires that every participant be equally adept at listening. And I mean really listening. Being present and paying attention to what is being said not just keeping your mouth shut while you wait for your chance to continue your verbal stream of consciousness.

Perhaps the art of conversation can be saved by revisiting the wise words of first grade teachers everywhere. Think about a world where we would all  embrace “using our listening ears.”

 

Halloween Costumes for Parents of Teenagers

unearthed-sexycostumereality-1610-1-web-1My son inadvertently gave me a brilliant idea for a line of Halloween costumes aimed at parents with teenagers due to a sassy insult he threw my way while I was talking to him on the phone.

Now to actually get him on the phone required me to go into full fib mode. I don’t know about you, but my children don’t use their phone for making calls – ever. To get him to actually talk to me I have to do what I call baiting the money hook. This means texting him about his finances.

It goes exactly like this: “Do you need more money for the rest of this month? Your dad thought maybe you were running low.”

When I send this text I know all I need to do is count to five before I get a response in the affirmative. Then I text back “call me so we can talk about how much you need.”  3, 2, 1 and ring-a-ding-ding. It’s my son using his phone for its primary purpose. Hold me. I feel faint.

Once I have him on the phone I began a mom interrogation about what’s fun and new at college. This past week he updated me on the happenings at a career fair. I, of course, gave him oodles of excellent advice and sage wisdom, which lead him to suggest that I go as a “helicopter parent for Halloween.”

After we got off the phone I began thinking that my son might be onto something (and it’s not that I’m a helicopter parent). Halloween costumes for parents of teenagers could be a h-u-g-e, untapped market. I did some research and Americans spent  $350 million on Halloween costumes – for their pets. Yes, pets! I can only imagine what this could bring in. 

In an effort to find investors for Halloween 2017 I’m unveiling a sneak peek at my debut collection right now. Drum roll please.

The star of the line is, of course, going to be the Helicopter Parent costume. This ensemble will feature a hat that resembles rotor blades and a rectangle over the head sheath that will look like an iPhone screen with apps that light up (battery included). These apps will be the high school parent portal that lists current grades, a child tracker GPS system, a homework to do list, the current class rank of your kid and a live stream of what your teen is posting on all of his or her social media accounts.

The next costume coming down the runway is the ACT/SAT Parent. Remember when you were in high school and you just showed up on a Saturday morning and took your college entrance exam? No muss. No fuss. Now every parent has to have skin in the game and by that I mean money is spent on tutoring and getting a statistical analysis of what time of the year is better to achieve a higher score. This costume will be large number two pencil with a hat in the shape of an eraser where you can attached a check made out to the college prep business of your choice.

Behold the wonder of the Finstagram costume. A “Finsta” is teen’s fake (or second) Instagram account where they “get real” and by that I mean post drunk, duck face pics and share other assorted moments in high school debauchery. The costume will look like an Instagram page with the front featuring a “perfect” teen as portrayed on the account parents monitor and the back will be the Finstagram account which will be a large photo of a red solo cup. The sight of which makes any legal guardian murmur, “Oh God, no.”

The showstopper of the collection will be a limited edition (I’m thinking perhaps even going couture) cheerleader outfit with a huge megaphone. This costume is called the Bragger. The outfit will be personalized with your teen’s face emblazoned on the cheer sweater and the working megaphone will be not only be decoupaged with all of your kid’s report cards, but at the touch of a button will loudly broadcast every thing your child has ever done up to and including pre-school achievements to college acceptance letters. Pom-poms will be extra.

Seriously, I’m thinking total awesomeness. Anyone want to go in with me on this?