Genetics are a Funny Thing

I love watching people's reactions when my dad says, "My goal is to have my funeral in a phone booth."  Most of them don't get it, I think, and the rest aren't quite sure how to react.  Typically it's an awkward chuckle.  The reason I love watching it is because he's serious.  He really hopes to not know anyone that would want to attend his funeral by the time he dies.  I am clearly his daughter.  Hubby really wishes I didn't have this blog.  He's pretty sure my toxic attitude may offend people.  I can't argue successfully against this point, but with my 9 - oh, wait, now 11! - followers, I'm pretty sure we're safe.  And since those followers are all people who know me, if I haven't pissed them off yet, this probably won't do it either.

And yet I didn't get my father's best feature - the ability to sit back & listen to a conversation, only to drop in the perfectly timed one-liner that cracks the place up.  While I can fling the occasional one-liner, people are less likely to notice it in the flurry of other words that are endlessly flowing out of my mouth.  Add vodka and it's exponentially worse.  I cannot shut up.  It is an illness.  But it is who I am, and while I try to fight it, it seems to be winning.  So poor hubby loses, since the words need to come out somewhere, and if I can put some here, I may be able to hold back once in a while.  Maybe.

What does this mean to my kiddos?  Little H believes that every person he meets is his friend.  If you don't have kids you may think this is a universal quality they share, what with their being too naive to see how much people suck, but it is not.  Yet H has this "quality" (lucky me), shouting "Mom, this is my new friend," awkward pause, while he asks the kid's name again, then "Amos!"  And by new friend, H means "this is the kid I've followed around the playground for 5 whole minutes!"  H is SO me.  Both the I can't shut up me and the I don't care who I piss off me.  He will relentlessly follow little Amos around the playground until Amos either begs his mother to leave or finally acknowledges (often against his will) that they are, indeed, FRIENDS!

And then there's JD.  This kid is my father and hubby, all wrapped in one.  Shy and not afraid who he pisses off.  This does not a friendly child make.  He is content, though, something for which neither Little H nor I are known.  With contentment comes contempt with JD, at least at the playground.  Here's the scene:  JD playing happily on his own, usually in the sand.  Over comes an unsuspecting friendly child who says, "Hi!"  This isn't exactly a strong political statement.  JD's reaction?  A death stare.  And this kid is committed.  He will stare right back at unsuspecting friendly child for several minutes until said child either skulks away (his preference), averts their eyes and decently stops talking to JD (acceptable), or cries (unacceptable!  too loud!).  When the crying happens JD will either throw something at the child (typically ineffective at stopping crying) or walk away to do something else where he may not have the horrific experience of being addressed, hopefully ever.

So there I sit, a comfortable distance away, watching these two creatures that are both mine, inevitably smirking or laughing, and once again pissing off the parents of either Amos or unsuspecting friendly child, and this time I'm not even trying.  C'mon people.

Hockey Moms Created A Whole Different Category of Sucking

So I'm a hockey mom.  I live in MN, so it was pretty much inevitable.  The next person to tell me I'm crazy to have my kid in hockey may get punched in the throat.  It happens so often that I now have a prepared run-on sentence when talking to other parents about the activities in which my sons are engaged.  It goes, "H plays hockey-which-we-signed-him-up-for-because-it's-really-the-only-thing-he's-interested-in" (big breath).  These people fail to realize the self-control I must exercise when they then present what they consider to be acceptable activities as better alternatives.  Like soccer & T-ball.  Really?  A friend with whom I grew up posted a great quote on facebook recently: "It's no secret I don't like soccer.  It's like watching grass grow, but with a bunch of soccer players in the way."-Stephen Colbert.  Exactly.  And T-ball?  More power to you if you like watching your kids make sand castles out of infield grit, but I do not.  It's not as if I invite these people to watch my kid practice.  I'd deserve a shoot down if I uttered the words, "H is a brilliant & talented hockey player.  Do you want to watch his Monday or Wednesday practice next week?"  But this is not what I do.  I don't need anyone there observing just what a deplorable listener my son is, even when he loves what he's doing.  I just thank God I don't have a girl so no one suggests dance lessons.  I don't have enough space to go off on that one.

Anywho, I digress.  So my kid's in hockey, and while he's only five, in MN that means we have 17 camps to choose from in any season, on average.  The first half of summer H is in a twice a week camp that cost...let's just say it wasn't cheap.  Like I could have gotten two new pairs of Hudsons not cheap.  And yet this is what I overhear from one mom to another during the second session: "These drills seem a little advanced for 5-year-olds, don't they?"  Um, so you spent that kind of ching to watch your kid skate in circles?  WTF?  Also, have you noticed that they aren't too advanced for most of the kids?  I'm just sayin' it might not be your kid's age.  It might be the fact that he has you for a mom - totally drew the short genetic straw on that one!

Hockey, for those of you who are living in a cage and incredibly stupid, is played on ice.  That would mean that even if you have a super cute new pair of Vince Camuto strappys, you probably shouldn't wear them to your kid's hockey practice.  This is also true of low-rise jeans with a shirt that isn't pretty long.  Putting on skates requires squatting, so plan ahead.  Also please refrain from saying, "It's cold in here." Really?  That's as interesting as the people who never tire of putting pictures of their car thermometer or the gas pump price on facebook.  We're all living in the same world people.  We know.  Saying it more than once in one ice session should result in an immediate ass kicking.

Here are a few rules all hockey moms should follow to make my life easier:
1) Hockey practice is not a bar.  I don't need to see your cleavage.  Neither does your kid while you're strapping on their skates.  I mean, ew.
2) It is summer, but it's always winter in the arena.  If you want to wear sandals, shut the hell up about your feet being cold.  You're an adult-figure it out.
3) Shut up.  Always.  You're boring.
4) I don't care which kid is your darling boy.  Really.  And if you start the sentence with "See that kid skating really fast?" I not only don't care, but am now rooting for little Augustan to fall on his ass.
5) Don't gasp when a kid checks or hooks.  This is hockey.  It happens.
6) Don't stare at me when I pound on the boards to celebrate (or to shoot my kid a devil stare for screwing off).  Hockey is noisy.  Go back to the yoga studio if you can't handle it.

So I like hockey, I like watching my kid attempt to learn it, but as with everything else in my life, the other parents are ruining it.  Living in a society isn't all it's cracked up to be.