Tag Archives: in laws

WHY DO OLDER PEOPLE HAVE CELL PHONES?

For the love of all things holy, it doesn't have to be this difficult!

 

There are certain questions in life for which we may never have definitive answers…. 

Where do we all go when we die? 

Why must we speak in tongues at Starbucks? 

Why do kids on soap operas go from infant to college in three years? 

And just why, why, why do older people bother to have cell phones? 

Help me understand. I really wanna know.  Please feel free to present your theories, and the most plausible will be posted here in a subsequent blog post. Winner will receive a free subscription to muffintopmommy for life and my unending gratitude. (Depending on how you view it, the prize is either worthless or priceless. It’s on you!) 

This question has been bugging me for a while. I’m not proud, but I’ve frequently gotten huffy with my rents who travel two hours to visit us, but don’t call when they leave to give me an ETA. (So I can make sure I’m home when they arrive. Or maybe NOT WORRY about their well being! Wouldn’t you think they’d be totally into that since they appreciated the heads up phone call– and probably would have put a tracking device in my shoe had it been available– when I was growing up?) 

The rents also fail to answer their phone when I call to inquire as to their whereabouts. My mum and dad will arrive, and mum will throw her hands up in the air all “Oops! I guess it was at the bottom of my purse and I didn’t hear it!” (In her defense, it’s totally possible my dad blasted talk radio at concert decibels. But bottom of the purse–not prime hearing the phone ring locale.) This is the same woman, God love her, who til recently if I called her on my cell and lost the connection, she’d call back my house and leave a message, “Hallo! Hallo! What happened? We got disconnected!” I mean, would I hang up on my own mother? Shouldn’t she know I wasn’t raised that way and assume I was on my cell? Or look at her caller ID to see where I called from? Nope. She called me the other day to ask if I called and hung up on their answering machine. (Again, why would I crank call my own parents? Huh? She’s not a cute boy and it’s not 7th grade, circa 1985.)  

 “Was I on your caller ID?” A tiny part of me thought maybe 2 year old hit redial or something. Oldest called Nebraska once so you never know! 

 “Oh, you know, I never even thought to check that!”  Freaking Comcast, just stop taking caller ID money from anyone over 65, you scammers! You know none of them even use it! 

I swear to God, I am not trying to make fun of my beloved mother who gave me food, love,  shelter, and Nike Cortez sneakers. I am not. I simply don’t understand. I know this is gonna bite me in the muffin top some day when my sons are all flustered that I don’t remember to call them in the Andes in 3-D or whatever the hell we’re expected to do then. 

My friend’s parents never even got caller ID. (They are so banking that $5.99 a month at least.) But now caller ID automatically shows up on their tv when it’s on so they think they’re all funny answering, “Hi, friend of muffintopmommy! HEE HEE.” when she calls. (I’m not going to start outing friends, sorry.)  But…but… the 90’s called and they want their joke back. OMG. 

This whole cell phone madness finally came to a head the other night.  Unfortunately, the rubber met the road on a jammed Route 93 South in New Hampshire. We were taking the fam to meet the in laws (Follow along…totally different set of older people…I’m equal opportunity with my phone snark.) for dinner about thirty miles south in Massachusetts because my son and hubs both have birthdays this week. You figure 30 miles, 30 minutes? Give or take an unexpected potty stop or two? Except we forgot it was the Sunday after the end of school vacation week for Mass. (That sound you heard Sunday night was me slapping my gigantic forehead.) So, there we sat on 93, along with every Bode and Lindsey disciple who came north to New Hampshire to ski for vacation and now voyaged south to get home.  

After the highway screeched to a halt, we jumped off  the nearest exit, and soon found ourselves winding our way down random back roads, blindly heading south. (Not really blindly. We did both get our licenses in Massachusetts so our driving skills are probably questionable in other regions of the continental United States, but our eyesight is totally fine. And while the registry, aka DMV, officer who administered my driving test junior year in high school did ask me if I had an eye deficiency after I parallel parked, I still passed with flying colors. Okay, I passed–barely–no need to be a show off! Someone has to barely make the cut or there’d be no cut, am I right?) 

Anyway, after it looked like our circuitous voyage would be a rather long one, I said to the hubs as I eye balled the hungry trio in the back, “You better call your parents and tell them we’re going to be really late. Or even ask them if they want to start driving north and meet us halfway somewhere else to eat.” 

“Yeah, you’re right.”  Of course I’m right! That’s the wife’s job! Scratch that. If I were that smart, we wouldn’t have gone 93. And I’d be way better at parallel parking.  

So the hubs dials up the parentals….and…..NO ANSWER. 

I raise my eyebrow. 

Dials them up again five minutes later. NO ANSWER. 

I raise my voice. (Which was difficult. Given the intense competition coming from the bleacher seats.) 

And again? He dials. And you guessed it….NO ANSWER! NO ANSWER, NO ANSWER, NO ANSWER. NO. ANSWER. 

I raise my pointer finger and squint all mommy/tv trial lawyer/Bubba Clinton. “WHY EVEN HAVE A CELL PHONE!!!!” 

“I know! This is your next blog post. Why do older people have cell phones? WHY!” 

After our collective (and surprisingly cathartic) huff is over, I finally figure out, A-HA! We can go all 90’s and just call the restaurant, like you’d do if someone had NO cell phone.  Rocking the brain cells that night! 

Hubs gets the restaurant number right away off the iphone (See! Cell phones are your friend!) and explains the sitch to the hostess. 

“You? You….have TWO parties of 7 for 5 o’clock for Dick?” 

Seriously? I cannot make this shit up. Two parties, under the name “DICK” for half past the stroke of blue light special. 

OMG, my mind can’t help but wander as he looks at me dumbfounded….what are the odds? Eleventy billion to one? I swear to God, I’m gonna go buy one of those MEGABILLIONTRILLIONMULTISTATE lottery tickets. Because with odds like there being two parties of 7 at 5 o’clock for Dick, I think we just might have the chance to be sunning oceanfront at the Cape some day on our own freaking Kennedy-esque compound! 

Why yes, I would like my Bud-Light in a frosty mug, thank you, Jeeves….just leave the stack of People and OK! right over there by the massage table!  

Snap! Paging muffintopmommy…. 

“Oh, one has a high chair? Okay, then that’s our…Dick. Yup. Yes. Oh, he’s not there? Okay, well if he checks in can you tell him we’re going to be pretty late because 93 was a parking lot? And can you ask him to call his son?” 

At this point, steam is coming out of my typically calm husband’s ears. (That’s not good, because that’s my job, along with being right!) 

“Well, I feel badly they’re going to be waiting so long for us.” Translation: I feel sorta bad but I postulate that if I were in their shoes, I’d be lovin’ me some bar snacks and frosty adult beverages, while I watched some Bode butt on the flat screen in the restaurant bar. (What? I am not obssessed with Bode. He’s from NH and I’m all about him representing is all!) 

“Too bad! Serves ’em right for probably sitting on the cell phone in the car with the ringer turned off!” Dial down the anger, boyfriend! We’re just minutes from toasted ravioli! 

But then….the baby starts whining, 2 year old keeps shaking his head saying, “I don’t see the Ta-toe, I really don’t see the Ta-toe!” (The Chateau!), and birthday boy says he has to “pee and he doesn’t know how long he can hold it…”, and there is not a store or a business in sight in Eastbumblebee, Cow Hampshire. 

 “Dad, are you SURE you’re going the right way?” 4 year old demands.  

“YES!” husband uncharacteristically snaps as the team starts assaulting us one by one. Yeah, he so had no clue and the gig is about up. They’re totally turning on us. 

In the midst of  this family fun adventure, I start rethinking my steadfast claim that I don’t need a GPS because, “I don’t go anywhere but Tarjay or the grocery store!” If we’d had a GPS, we might have known there was traffic. Calling the in laws would be a moot point. We’d have gone another way, and been yukking it up over toasted ravs. 

Maybe our blame and cell phone fury has been totally misplaced this entire time! We’ve been livid with the collective older folk in our lives for not using technology to our liking and to our advantage but WE could have had a completely different trip had WE gotten all 2008 and gotten a GPS! 

Smug much, muffintopmommy and hubs? 

Anyone know where I can get a deal on a GPS?? Preferably one that’s, ah, easy for a technology challenged mom to use?

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Filed under Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage, Some things just don't fit into a neat little box. The uncategory!

It’s not my fault, I don’t get out much!

It all started when we got the invite to my friend’s wedding. The wedding was out of town, a good two hours away, and the night we’d be getting home from our family “vacation” week at the beach. (And by vacation, I mean one week relocation. Everyone knows a vacation with kids isn’t a vacation. You don’t go out alone. You don’t sleep in. You don’t finish a conversation. It’s like being at home, but with a much better view! And the view? Better be damn good while you’re washing dishes by hand, thank you very little! Mrs. Ingalls…how DID you do it?)

Given the logistics and the fact that my in laws offered to watch our kids over night (woot woot!) we decided we’d get a room so we could whoop it up (Get your mind out of the gutter you freshie! Whoop it up = drink it up!). We planned to get to the hotel a little early and relax for a bit (Relax= have a drink and some party snacks! What is WRONG with you people! Get off this blog now and go get a Harlequin if that’s your thing!)

Despite painstaking planning, we got to the church with seconds to spare. No party snacks, no drinks and we sprinted into the church as my friend was standing on the front steps with her dad —looking like quite the little hottie I might add! (The bride, not the dad! We really need to talk!)

(We never thought there’d be so much traffic on a summer Saturday heading out to western Mass. Who knew? Thank you Mass Pike traffic, I love you, too! I watched my quiet time slip away while we limped to the wedding behind a tractor trailer.)

We ended up just being thrilled to make it and it really was a lovely wedding.  The bride was radiant, the food delish, and the dancing….not recorded. (PTL!) Everything was perfect….except, if I have one bone to pick….it was the seating chart. Did I have to be seated next to our old (and apparently cradle robbing) friend, “Jack”, and his date—a 24 year old blonde Russian bombshell?

Was she nice? Yes, yes she was. She was very, very nice and I actually learned a thing or two about Russian culture that evening (I can now swear, give a toast, and ask to go to the bathroom in Russian! Look out Putin!) But come on. Is it really kind to put the chubby middle aged hausfrau whose had three kids in four years and is suffocating in her Spanx next to the hot child model? That would be “nyet”! (My esteem is very fragile, you see.) But na na na na na, she didn’t get carded at the wedding either! Victory is mine (But maturity? Apparently not)!

We brought clothes to change into after the reception figuring we’d hit one of the hotel bars afterward. At the end of the reception,we chatted with some others and planned to all meet up.  We have a mini conference in the hallway with Jack and the underage model and a friend of the bride’s, Erin, but Jack says he heard the bars were already closed!

“Nonsense!” I shriek. “I’ll be ready in like two seconds. You guys sit down and have a beer or some wine while I go change! There are some snacks on the desk over there. Help yourself!” (I’m sorry but I was fresh out of Vodka! Had I known I’d be playing international host, I would have been more prepared.)

We change fast and regroup. I am HELL bent on going out. And if I can’t go out, I will bring the party to us! (See, this is what happens when you unleash a drunken housewife onto the world. The fact that my husband and I had not been away alone since Christ was a child, coupled with spending most of the day snarling around various New England traffic jams, was the perfect storm for one mother gone mad!)

I soon realized I had a cooler and non refrigerated party snacks. It would be like college! We had the start of a party with the cradle robber, the Russian, and poor Erin, who in retrospect I realized was looking more uncomfortable by the minute, nibbling on her pretzel rod and trying to be positive, “You’re such a mom! Look at all the cute snacks you packed–so prepared!”, while probably trying to formulate an exit strategy. In my Bud Light brain, I totally missed the social cues that a cute, single 30 year old most likely did not find the prospect of partying with this random foursome  at all amusing. (Sorry Erin! You really should have come to the shower—I was on my best behavior—only one mimosa!)

The other problem? I wasn’t totally sure where everyone else was and I didn’t notice it was about 1:30 in the morning. (Was there speed in my filet mignon? I have to wonder.) So I did what any good party planner would do, I made our little international coalition stomp down the hall with me, and then I knocked on a few doors where I imagined people were staying.

After three different doors, with my husband finally urging me to stop (Okay begging…but I blame him! He should have stopped the madness way sooner! So his fault!) my friend’s bridesmaid opened up. In her pajamas. And… I guess I missed the “Do Not Disturb” sign.

“HEY! I’M SHO SHORRY I MISHED THE DO NOT DISHTUHHHHB SHIGN ON YOUR DO-AHH! HEY YOU GUYS WANNA COME TO AHHE ROOM FOR AN AFTAHHH PAHTY? OH,WE HAVE FUN PAHHTY SSHNACKS AND BEEAAHHHS TOO!” Okay, so my old Boston accent I shed years ago might come out a tad when I’ve been drinking….

“Um, I think I’m gonna pass but you guys have fun! Maybe I’ll see you at the breakfast tomorrow?” Um, nyet, because I’ll be in fetal position vowing never to drink again….

“Shurrree! G’night!”

Just then, two uniformed men show up. I remember thinking, “Hmm, wonder what they’re doing here?”

They very politely tell me to please pipe down, there are other people staying in the hotel and it’s late and I really am being TOO loud.

“Oh, I am sho shorry! Yesh, I will be quiet and I will head back to my room right now!” I whisper, horrified that I’m the one in trouble.

The next day, as we were chatting about the wedding on the way home, I said to my husband, “OMG! I cannot believe I got busted by the Marriott security guards! How embarassing! I am SO going on the wagon. What.a.loser!”

“Janet, that was a Marriott security guard AND a Springfield cop! You got busted by a real cop!”

“What! Are you kiddin’ me! For cripes sake, if I had known that, I wouldda said, “Don’t you be worrying about me! Why don’t you do me a favor, and check blondie’s visa!”

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Filed under Friends...you got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!