Blog Posts by Manic Motherhood

This summer I decided to do some monumentally stupid. I joined a gym with my son, Junior. Now, I really thought this would be a good thing. After all Junior has wanted to join a gym for a year or so. And frankly, my butt is the size of a small naval vessel so I probably could use a workout or two. Or fifty. Whatever.

Unfortunately, you would think that I would understand that the kid has more energy than I. And yet I am so stupid that I join a gym with him. I swear to you, this is pure torture. For one thing, it's like working out with the energizer bunny right after he's received fresh batteries.

For example, the first day at the gym, I need to fill out paperwork. Junior immediately spots spinning machines-a piece of exercise equipment I usually try to avoid because they require a lot of exertion on my part. (Yes, you exercise Nazis out there; I do understand that the whole purpose of exercise is to exert myself, but I've never been one to mindlessly follow the crowd. I

Dear Friends and Family,

I'm sorry to tell you that the intervention you staged a few months ago isn't working. Yes, it's true; I am still addicted to Facebook.

Oh, I know I told you that I only stayed on Facebook to catch up with old friends and keep in contact with new ones. I know I promised to only use the Internet for its original purpose-searching for the perfect pair of black sandals and reading blogs about the cast of Twilight. I remember that I promised not to get sucked up in the virtual hugs and smiles and pillow fights. And I tried to resist. Really. But how am I, a mere mortal, supposed to resist the virtual allure of getting smacked in the head with a rock star pillow?

And then there are the water fights. I ask you, who among us can resist a virtual water fight? I can load any number of water guns with anything from lemonade, to, er, a substance that closely resembles lemonade, but obviously isn't. Anyway, I can squirt all my friends. And they can squirt me

During summer, my family has an exciting and challenging game we play. This game is called "Keeping the House Cool During a Heat Wave While Not Using the Air Conditioner." I hate this game with a passion equaled only by my love for shoes.

I'm not a hot weather wuss. I spent too much in Central California, where a cooling trend means the temperatures are only in the 90s. I know hot. I don't really mind hot. I can, if pressed, embrace hot and deal with it. Hubby on the other hand, views hot weather as a challenge. An air conditioning challenge.

Of course, this is a challenge that's simple for him. He spends most of his week in his air-conditioned office. I, on the other hand, spend most of the week adhering to hubby's meticulously planned cooling control system. And by that I mean I spend most of the week convincing hubby that I have adhered to his anal-retentive plan for keeping the PG&E costs to a minimum while in fact I use the air conditioner incessantly and make sure that

You know, when I was growing up, we had momisms-sayings my mom yelled at us over and over. Of course, Dad was an equal partner in the parenting, so we had dadisms yelled at us as well. So for Father's Day, I put together a list of my Dad's Greatest Hits and my rebuttals. Because you know, I'm an adult now. He can't ground me for talking back. At least, I don't think he can.

• "I walked to school in the snow, uphill, both ways with the dangerous abominable snowman lurking in the trees waiting to pounce on me and take my lunch."
  
  Dad, you grew up in Los Angeles. That's not snow, it's smog. And Grandma says that she drove you. Through the smog. And there were no hills. The worst thing that could have happened to you was an allergy attack.
  
• "My name is Dad. Only my friends get to call me by my first name and you're not my friends; you're the fruit of my loins."
  
  Dad, enough with the fruit of my loins stuff. Can't you just call us your children? Oh, wait, now I get

Recently a study from Northwestern University revealed that girls have a built-in neurological advantage over boys in that girls have better use of language. I swear, the people conducting the research had to have been a bunch of men raised on a deserted island who have never, ever talked to a female before. Because, frankly, you don't need an expensive study to confirm what everyone on the planet knows. Women are more verbally communicative than men.

Seriously. Look, let's say you're a married housewife in a small city we'll call Manic Motherhood Town (hey, it's my city, I get to name it). Your husband comes home from work, plops a bottle of wine on the counter and says, "I saw Joe today." Now, to a man this conversation is done. He's handed over the gift, the bottle of wine presumably from Joe, and he's imparted all the information he believes necessary to accompany the gift.

The woman on the other hand, has many things racing through her mind. "What kind of wine is it?

It's nearly summer. And moms all over the country are running around trying to do one thing-put their children in summer camp. Now, they have summer camps for practically everything. There are science camps, rocket camps, sports camps, horse camps, Barbie hair styling camps-the list could go on forever. But none of these camps are practical.

I mean, sure, I could send my son to Space Camp, but the truth is I don't think the next Buzz Aldrin is sitting in the family room playing on his PS3. In fact, I would prefer to spend my hard-earned cash on some camps that would be useful. Kind of like fantasy camps for moms, only we don't get to escape for a week of spa treatments. But you know, I think camps like these would help make my summer brighter, whether they have mani/pedis or not:

Make Your Own Bed Camp

This exciting one-week camp introduces children to the wonderful world of bed making. Classes include "Comforters: The Easiest Way to Make a Bed", its companion class

I'm going to tell you all right now that I don't do construction. And by that I mean, I don't like doing it, I don't like being around when it's done and frankly, just thinking about construction pretty much turns me into a big, old cranky-pants. I think it's because I really, really hate change.

And that's why I've been a cranky-pants for a while now. You see, when we moved into this house it had a yard that was mainly dirt with a few rocks, a dead tree and a couple of lizards thrown in. It was ugly, but maintenance-free. We lived with it for a while and then decided that maybe we should put in live plants and possibly some tacky yard art. And no, it didn't have anything to do with the death looks we got from neighbors who were clearly jealous because we had the only carefree yard on the street and possibly the entire neighborhood.

Anyway, because hubby and I are both old and allergic to digging out dirt and putting in drainage and stuff, we decided to hire a contractor. I

I'll preface this by saying I love my parents. Unfortunately, Mom and Dad recently retired and apparently, they left behind their brains and common sense to travel the country in their RV. Their plan was to spend the rest of their lives exploring the country. In the summers, the grandkids would join them on trips to see the Smithsonian, the Statue of Liberty and a really big ball of twine somewhere in Iowa. Or maybe Idaho.

But, after approximately 2.5 days of grueling travel with two dogs, two cats and very few places to get free WiFi so my mom could shop online at Nordstrom, they landed in a Texas town so small it doesn't have a post office. Or a grocery store-although it has a bar and grill because in Texas it isn't a proper town unless it has a place to suck down Shiner Bock and play pool. So my parents decided to park the RV and settle in a house with broadband and regular UPS deliveries.

Since then, they have been driving everyone insane.

First of all, they are