Doo-Da, Doo-Da

(Sung to the tune of  "Camp Town Races")

Mom’s gone crazy yes she has

Doo-da, doo da
She can’t wait for the night to pass
Oh, de doo-da day

Hand the mom a beer,
Hand her one real quick,
If you don’t she might just loose her mind,
Or beat you with a stick.

Her son was home from school today,
Doo-da, doo-da
TV and video games all day,
Oh, de doo-da day

But is the boy thankful?
Not even a little bit.
He stomped when she asked him to read his book
And threw a hissy fit.

Her middle girl was at a friend's today,
Doo-da, Doo-da
The first time these girls had ever played,
Oh, de doo-da day

I forgot to pick her up,
I failed to do my share,
She called on the phone to say "where are you?"
(Damn) Hang on and I'll be right there.

The baby is willful yes she is,
Doo-da, Doo da
She destroys the house in one minute,
Oh, de doo-da day.

She won’t listen to a word I say,
And runs around in the nude,
Will she go to bed tonight?
Nope, she’s not in the mood.

My house is trashed, crap’s on the floor,
Doo-da, Doo da
The kids don’t care and look there’s more,
Oh, de doo-da day

Why can’t the house be clean?
Why can’t they pick up their shit?
They’re happy as pigs in mud, it’s true
I don’t like it one little bit.

The laundry pile is five miles high,
Doo-da, Doo-da
I can’t keep up, even tho’ I try
Oh, de doo-da day

There’s clothes on the beds and floors,
And hung from the closet doors,
There’s still a clean basket from last week’s chores,
Oh, de doo-da day

Mom’s gone crazy it’s confirmed,
Doo-da, Doo da
She knows her family will never learn,
Oh, de doo-da day

Hand her another beer,
Who’s counting make it three,
With any luck she’ll go to sleep,
And dream quite peacefully.

Kindle’s Not My Kind

Last night I went to my monthly book club meeting-our book this month being The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. If you’re looking for something great to read I highly recommend it. It’s the first of a trilogy by Stieg Larsson and I’m going out to get the second book today. I can't wait. 

Many of my bookclub members share books or check them out from the library. I choose to purchase my books for book club for a number of reasons. For one, I like to own the things I’ve read and it’s a great resource for my children (when they are older) or family and friends who happen to need a good book suggestion. I like the way the books fill up the shelves on either side of my fireplace, like that they remind me of a library and peace and quiet. I also like the feel of a book in my hands, the way the pages smell new when you fan them in front of your nose; the slick, clean cover, the slightly rough pages waiting to be turned. If nothing else, the books serve as a tangible reminder of time spent reading. Taking them back to the library or returning them to a friend leaves me feeling like I’ve got nothing to show for the hours I devoted to the characters while ignoring my family. The books are proof positive that I’ve accomplished something worthwhile. I also purchase books to support the author, for the time it took to create that story, edit and revise. I don’t have lattes every day, don’t have acrylic nails, and don’t have a gym membership. The least I could do is drop $15-$20 a month on a book that supports the author and my local bookstore. A part of me also hopes that it will come back around someday when I publish my own book. While I support public library efforts, that wouldn’t exactly help pay my bills. Writers have bills too you know.

A few of our book club members are proud owners of Kindles and now download their books to read. Personally, you won’t see me owning a Kindle anytime soon unless they can figure out a way to make it look like, smell like, and feel like a book. I doubt the creators will go to all that trouble when I could just go out and buy a book the old-fashioned way. There is something impersonal about the nature of a Kindle, the first being it doesn’t have that new-page smell. You can’t fan it’s pages, or gasp at the thickness of the book and wonder how you’re ever going to get through it, or see the thin binding and know you’ll have it read in 5 hours flat. There’s no pretty cover design to look at when you download Kindle stories, which probably puts a cover designer somewhere out of work. Kindles also don’t allow you to pass down your most cherished, beloved stories to your children after you kick-it. Books they can hold in their hand and imagine you holding in your hand, whose dog-eared pages, scuff marks, stains, and underlined passages give them a glimpse of how much you loved the story line, the characters, or the setting. I have books from grandparents on my shelves, usually with some tribute to a holiday or personal thoughts written on the inside cover. You can’t write on a Kindle. And you can’t dog-ear your favorite pages. And I can imagine that sharing a word file with your brother or sister after mom or dad dies, doesn’t produce the same amount of emotional connection an old-fashioned book does.

Reading text on a printed page also gives me a break from reading text on a computer screen. I sit at the computer reading, typing, editing, researching, and revising words on the screen for many hours a day. When evening comes, or when my eyes start burning, reading books gives my brain a break from the virtual, back-lighted print I read constantly. It also makes me feel like I’m not at work anymore.

Another problem with the Kindle is that you can’t leave it on the back of the toilet, or in a basket filled with other quick reading materials for time on the commode. It’s just not practical. Sure you could read it while doing your business, but it can’t reside there in the bathroom for others to use and enjoy. And you’ll probably be worried about it falling into the toilet or getting damaged from shower condensation. On the other hand, if a paper book falls into the toilet, no big deal. It’s a $15 replacement.

Here are some other problems with Kindle as I see it:

-Authors can’t sign your Kindle.

-The phrase “Don’t judge a Kindle by its cover” doesn’t make any sense.

-You also couldn’t say, “I’m going to have a cup of tea and curl up with a good Kindle.”

-Blind people can’t use a Kindle.

-You can’t use cute bookmarks with your Kindle.

-Your Kindle could crash, deleting your entire library. My books will still be on the shelf.

-Flipping a page is quicker than hitting a button and waiting for the page to appear.

As technology becomes more advanced I find myself becoming more old-fashioned. I still do not text. I do not own a Kindle. I certainly do not have a hands-free phone device to use while driving. I understand the need for our society to progress, but there is something beautiful about a shelf full of books, that a list on a computer screen just can’t replace. I know that someday books may be obsolete, but for now I’m happy to walk into a library and surround myself with that historical, papery, musty, book smell; run my fingers down their spine and dream about what those pages contain. It incites in me a feeling of nostalgia that a Kindle just can’t kindle.

Yo! Mr. Gabba Gabba

Dear Parker Jacobs,

I’d like to thank you for posting a comment on my blog for two reasons: 1) I appreciate your feedback and behind-the-scenes information, and 2) it has provided me another blogging opportunity since blogging this frequently has left me a little on the dry side of creativity. I hope you don’t mind my making this letter more public--it’s kind of what I do. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I’ve written to Christine Alaniz, a Dodge van designer, the Allergan R&D Department, and of course Santa. The only one I’ve ever heard back from was Santa because Santa is good like that.

I apologize for insinuating that you (the designers) were drug users. You being LDS and all, I can understand how you might take offense. Not that I haven’t known my share of LDS friends who “dabbled” in mind-altering substances when I lived in Arizona, but as you stated, you do not. I stand corrected. I also can appreciate the time it takes to create this show (“garbage” I think is how I put it…) because it takes my son WEEKS to create a project for school with a piece of foam board, some markers, and a pile of construction paper, and he’s not even taking that thing live.

I do stand firm in my opinion that Gabba Gabba lacks more obvious threads that tie segments together and that DJ Lance is a little unrelatable. My kids have never even heard of Mork and Mindy nor have any idea about the 60's and 70's which would be the type of prior knowledge they would need to appreciate Lance’s outfit and outrageousness. After having taught first, second, and third grade, I agree that the different colors, shapes, sizes etc. make your characters interesting to look at—but that’s about it. Honestly, us parents just don’t get it. I’m fully aware we’re not your target audience but you need some degree of parent-buy in to make me want to put your show on the tube. If it’s one more thing in my life that gives me a headache, chances are good I’m going to pass it up and suggest Dora, Barney, or Olivia. My good friends did feel it prudent that I mention that my almost three-year old daughter asks for “Gabba Gabba” when she is over at their house, although I’ve never heard her request it around me. So you do have a fan in our home even if I’m reluctant to encourage it.

Now let's address Muno. You’re killing me with the story about your brother, which suddenly makes my joke appear cold and insensitive. A partially bind brother drawing one-eyed self-portraits as a child is image enough to elicit a sobbing response from the Grinch himself, and I find it a nice tribute to your brother to incorporate this secret family history into this character. I’d venture to guess that the majority of the general public has no idea about this homage to your brother and putting one eye on a red, bumpy, phallic symbol is a huge oversight, LDS or not. The obvious one-eyed character should have been Plex because robots are robots and much more accustomed to having one eye. Even Brobee could have pulled it off with the added benefit of his unibrow being that much more pronounced.

And call me a feminist, but Foofa is a sad role model for girls. My 9-year-old daughter takes karate, plays basketball, can wrestle her brother to the ground and with any luck, my three year old will be just as strong. Foofa is all things stereotypic: pink, whiny, soft-spoken, and “moody” according to the Yo Gabba Gabba Nick Jr. Website. Her character isn’t a role model I’d like my daughters to emulate because the last thing I need around my house is more whining. It seems like your group of designers went out of their way to think outside the box with the other characters and yet Foofa isn’t all that creative. Maybe you could have her attend an assertiveness training session in one of the segments, where she learns how to stand up for herself and practices talking in a normal voice. Maybe she could even wrestle Plex and win. That would make for good Gabba Gabba.

But of course, these are all just suggestions and musings from your average, run-of-the-mill, suburban mom and nothing you should take personally. This probably isn’t the best time to plug myself, but if your group of friends need more suggestions or ideas for this show or new ones you may have in the pipeline, I’m incredibly available. As a freelance writer, former teacher, and mom of three, I have plenty I could bring to the table, and I promise not to crack any more jokes about drug use. Keep up your work because it’s obvious plenty of people love the Gabba idea, even if I find it all a bit….weird. But I have gotten two blog posts off it so that’s somethin’.

Warm regards to your children, family, cousins, friends, and of course your partially blind brother,

Rachel Vidoni
Mom and Self-Appointed Childrens Programming Critique-er Extraordinaire

Gabba Garbage

I’m probably going to offend some people with this blog. If you are one of those people, I apologize in advance. Blogging everyday (or every other day) has required me to be extremely creative in where I look for material and today’s blog inspiration comes to you from the fabulous programmers at Nick. Jr.

I’m not sure how many of you have ever watched the so-called children’s program called Yo Gabba Gabba, but it has to be THE most inane kids show ever to hit the boob-tube. There have been shows in the past that may not have been particularly “quality” (Teletubbies) but this Yo Gabba Gabba really is more like Yo Crappa Crappa.

It’s the only kids show I’ve ever seen where being on an acid trip would actually be a benefit—and clearly something the designers and developers of this show were doing when they created it. I forced myself to watch part of an episode (I just couldn’t make it through an entire show) attempting to try and understand it. I’m a teacher. I have a graduate degree. You would think that I could pull some meaningful tidbit out of a thirty minute segment. Nope. I got nothing.

Far as I can tell, DJ Lance Rock landed on this planet back in the late 70’s with Mork from Ork, although I never remember him in any of the shows. Perhaps Mindy learned her lesson with Mork and hid DJ Lance a little deeper in the attic. I’m pretty sure that the shiny space-age body suit DJ Lance wears hasn’t come back into vogue since, and for good reason. One thing is certain, he was definitely in the band back on Ork because he brought his fuzzy orange Q-tip hat with him to this planet. He probably played the buffoon. Excuse me, I mean bassoon. And what about this guys future? Is being DJ Lance really a great resume builder? Who is this guy and what other shows passed him up before he was offered this classic role? Would no one else wear the hot-to-trot Elton-John designed body suit?

The other characters on this abysmal kid’s show are par for the course with DJ Lance. Names like, Brobee, Foofa, Muno, Plex, and Toodee, (seriously?) give rise to the question as to who let the pre-language one year old name the characters, or more plausibly, that these names were a result from a game of drunken Scrabble gone bad.
“Whaschagotlefbuddy?”
“Toooo Oh’s, tooo E’s, and a D and a T.”
(Laughing hysterically…) “Whoa man, thalikeshpells ‘Toodee!’ Thawoodbeuhkilluhname for acahtooncharacuh!”
(They’re inebriated here in Boston.)

Not only did the drunken brainstorm continue, but they obviously served the producers "special brownies" when they shared their idea because somehow this show ended up on Nick Jr. Not on the local programming station as you might suspect, but a real-live big-time network with advertisers. Sometimes the stupidity of people still amazes me.

So, who are these Yo Crappa Crappa characters? Well, Brobee is some kind of sasquatch cross pollinated with a stick of green fruit stripe gum. His mouth is either freakishly smiling, or when badly edited, freakishly frowning. And he has no neck. I feel like he should be adorning the floor of some retro chic’s college dorm room. Foofa, the pepto pink, squishy tear drop? melted mallow? is a sorry representation of females everywhere with her super soft, whiny-whispery voice. It’s obvious she uses Latisse, because her eyelashes are very thick, dark, and doe like. (She may even dabble in Botox, but this is pure speculation.) Basically when I see her on the TV I want to squish her little body between two graham crackers out of repulsion. The Brawny commercial then plays in my head, “Wimpy, wimpy, wimpy..”

Plex is the least bizarre out of everyone, being a robot and all. He looks like a robot. Acts like a robot. This I can live with. I still think he’s dumb, but at least his character makes sense. Toodee is some blue cat-dragon-walking-egg hybrid who also uses Latisse. Why a cat-dragon hybrid was a good idea I’m not sure. Perhaps the creators were playing off the dragon-donkey theme in Shrek III. That was funny. This hybrid is not. Last, but certainly not least is Muno. Muno deserves a blog all his own. I think some definite Freudian fantasies subconsciously played out in the creators mind when they created this one. I have two words for Muno: sex toy. I’m sorry but I’m calling it like I see it, and Muno is nothing if not a dead ringer for a product you’d find on the shelves of an adult shop next to the cherry flavored whipped cream and double A batteries. That fact coupled with the one eye in the middle of his stick (it’s not a head really) just leaves me feeling grimy. And I’m supposed to let my two year old watch him bounce around? Please. My kids have to be at least 9 before I start filling their heads with inappropriate images and lyrics. I mean subjects.

The characters are ridiculous, but what about the plot line? What about the theme? Yes, well, what about them? Because in twenty minutes I’m not sure there was anything linking the 15-second segments together. Here’s what I saw:

• Life-size characters dancing around a badly drawn and painted cardboard set.
• Life-size DJ Lance is yelling about his boom box.
• Suddenly the characters are tiny and DJ Lance is looking down on them while they run around a construction paper set.
• Whoa, suddenly there’s a human girl jumping rope. Now she’s gone.
• Characters are life-size again and DJ Lance is little.
• Whoa, another boy is suddenly on screen dancing. Now he’s gone.
• DJ Lance is big again, watching the melted mallow and sex toy fight over a yellow slide. DJ Lance picks up the slide, it goes from being big in the scene, to being little in his hands.

 Honest to all that is good, the scenes changed so often I think I got a little show-sick. It clearly either caters to the four-and-under ADHD crowd or hopes to create more of them (maybe Adderall and Ritalin are sponsors of Nick Jr…. hmmmm, I might be onto something here). I finally changed the channel because a migraine started up from all the commotion and noise. I decided to cut my losses realizing that was 20 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

Suffice it to say I’m not letting my youngest watch this show. Sure I’ll let her listen to “Yady Gaga” as she calls her and we sing “Papparazi” in the car together. But I’m drawing the line at Yo Crappa Crappa. She’s too young to be introduced to psychedelic overly smiley men from Ork and one-eyed sex toys. Call me crazy.

Highlights of My Day

• Enjoyed a free pastry today at Starbucks, along with a grande half-caf, two-pump mocha latte.
• Spent an hour and a half driving to my chiropractor appointment which lasted for 10 minutes. But well worth it.
• Worked arms, shoulders, and abs in P90X after two week hiatus. I know, I know.
• Spent some time on the computer working on various writing projects.
• Did a couple loads of laundry.
• Took a nap.
• Made leftovers for dinner: homemade corned beef hash with fried eggs and toast. Super yummy.
• Talked to my sister on the phone.
• Got a new copy of Family Fun in the mail.
• Surfed Facebook and my favorite blogs, including my own.
• Periodically checked the sump pumps and lower level to make sure pumps were running and all was dry.

Things I didn't do today but should have

• Vacuumed up hairy crap from all horizontal surfaces in every room.
• Cleaned fetid bathrooms including molding tub grout.
• Worked more on the writing jobs that are paying me.
• Opened and organized the pile of mail from the past two weeks.
• Cleaned off the hutch.
• Read some more of my novel for bookclub.
• Called my grandparents.
• Visited sick neighbor in the hospital.

Seven Haikus

Mold Inducer
Rain how you plague me
Seeping under my pergo
Causing me headache

Aberration
Colored cotton piles
Litter my baseboards and floors
Soon we’ll all be nude

Bright Light
Craziness sets in
Fingers melded to laptop
Hours spent typing

Iced Perfection
My lemony tea
Covered in condensation
Filled with white sugar

Working Out
My limbs atrophy
Two weeks of not working out
Now starting over

Lent
Forfeit for forty
Preparing for Easter morn
No blogging daily!

Crazy Woman
My two year old is
Asking for Lady Gaga
Music while driving

Sweet Rewards

This afternoon my son came bounding home after playing with his friend so I could take him to his batting and catching practice for the upcoming baseball season. Today was a gorgeous sunny day, my son had a sleep over last night, and he was tired and wanted to stay home. As I’m putting on my sunglasses, purse slung over my shoulder, my son starts moaning.

“Owwwwhhhww. My knee cap really hurts mom. Ohhhhuughhh owwwoouuhg.”
I’m at the top of the stairs. I have the keys in my hand. I have a glare on my face.
“Get up, you are going to baseball,” I say in my angry mom voice.
“Seeerrriousssly mom! My legs hurts so bad,,, OOOHHHH, there it goes again, my knee, my knee, my knee!”

Now these are the moments in my life where I always play the wrong card. Always. If he really is hurt, I’ll force him to go which will injure him further and scar him for life because I “never listen to him.” On the other hand, if I believe what he says about being totally incapacitated, his knee being on the verge of snapping like an ice covered twig and let him stay home, he’ll really be fine and just playing me, which will reward the behavior and he’ll do it again. I’m screwed either way.

I perform my due diligence and inspect both knees. I push on one. I push on the other. One definitely feels squishier. One does look a tad swollen. Crap. Maybe his knee cap really is hurt. I decide to do what all good moms do: go ask my husband.

His advice? Take him to baseball. Tell him to be easy on it, he’ll be fine. This way when I break the news to my son, I can say, “Dad said to take you and you’ll be fine.” This alleviates a bit of my guilt since I didn’t really make the last call. I walk upstairs to tell my son and offer to give him some ibuprofen to ease the pain. (I am not above drugging my children if they think it will help them.)

He’s whining. He’s moaning. I’m getting fed up because we are going to be late to practice and I was planning on dropping him off and running to Home Depot. He’s starting to screw with my errands.

“You’re going to be fine,” I say. The medicine will help you feel better and you can ice it on the way to practice. You just tell the coaches if your knee cap is hurting too badly.”
“Can I have a bag of Skittles when practice is over?” He asks.
“Sure,” I reply.

And like Lazarus rising from his death bed, my son stands up, grabs his glove and bat, and walks down the steps to the car. It’s an absolute Skittle miracle.

It never ceases to amaze me the lengths children will go to for a piece of candy. My daughter will carry my son’s trumpet home from the bus stop for a single Jolly Rancher. When I was teaching I could get 26 second graders to suck the carpet spotless with their milk straws for a candy corn. I’ve gotten my two year old to pick up all the toys in the living room for a frozen ice pop. For two ice pops she’d probably dust the baseboards.

What happened to the reward system of my youth? “Do it because I said so!” or “You’ll do it or else!” or even “If you don’t do this right now, you’ll be sorry!” What happened to those motivational quips? I can tell you if I said any of those to my children attempting to get them to perform some sort of task, they would stare at me expressionless. What did she just say to us? They’d think. Is she trying to use rhetoric to get us to perform like monkies? We only work for cold, hard, candy.

I’m sure the pendulum started its backswing when moms everywhere began giving their children M&M’s for going pee-pee and doodie on the potty. Frantic that Prince and Princess wouldn’t be ready for pre-school, parents everywhere panicked and introduced the candy store to the bathroom—resulting in a funky Wonka-porcelain vibe. At the ripe old age of two, our children began to associate performing an action with sweet rewards and just like the apple in the Garden of Eden (from a grafted tree mind you), the rest is history. Don’t look so righteous. You know you’ve done it.

Wouldn’t it be great if candy continued to be such a motivator throughout life? Can you imagine what would get done in the house with a bag of your husband’s favorite candy snack?
Wife: “Oh Huun-nnie!” (in sing song voice)
Husband: “Yes, dear?”
Wife: “Could you please hang the wall mirror over the mantle in the living room and rearrange the furniture when you are done? I have some Milk Duds for you!” (in sing song voice rattling the box over her head.)
Husband: “Absolutely! No problem! If you throw in some Junior Mints I’ll sand and refinish the hardwood floors while I’m at it!”
Wife: “Why Dear! I have a box of those too!”

Or how about in the workplace:
(Setting: a company meeting)
Boss: “Okay ladies and gentlemen. I need to have two volunteers work all night doing research for our newest client and type up a 450 page report on the strategy they feel would be best going forward, and I’ll need this information on my desk by 8:00 tomorrow morning. Guuuesss whhhattt I’ve goootttt?” (Pulls from behind his back…)
“A box of Rasinettes and Lemonheads for the lucky volunteers!”
Group: (All hands raised at once) Me! MeMe! MeME! Me!

If adults were as motivated by candy as children we could restructure the world in about a week. Find a cure for cancer. Establish world peace. But alas. We grow up and candy is no longer the motivator that is was. Oh sure, a few women will do some crazy things for a box of high quality dark chocolates, but beyond that, candy’s lost its joie de vivre. Maybe it’s because we are suddenly in control of it. Our parents are no longer in charge of the candy cabinet and we do not have to ask permission. Once you can purchase the stuff yourself anytime you want it, it’s no longer interesting.

Well, for now I’m going to ride this locomotive until the tracks run out and the conductor tells me to get my butt off the train. Don’t bother giving me any psycho-babble about "natural rewards" for everyday tasks. After a grueling weekend my house is completely trashed. I have a whole cabinet of leftover Valentine’s Day candy and three willing candy goblins asleep in bed. It’s gonna be a great week.

(Cue Music: “Good day sunshine….good day sunshine…..good day sun shine…”)