Dear Editor of Soccer Coaches

Do you ever realize you haven't taken a single picture this season,
and have to dig one out from last season? 

Dear Soccer Coaches,

I appreciate all you do. Heaven knows I couldn't do it. Mostly because even after 12 years of attending games I still do not understand the rules, and because I have an aversion to objects flying toward my face. At any rate, I know it's a thankless job that your wife probably signed you up to do without your permission. My hat is off to you and your donation of time and patience.

However, let me address one minor thing you all eventually do: the kids vs. parents practice and/or game. It is the worst. I dread it more than anything else I have found dreadful about adulthood. I do not want to play soccer. With you, with other parents, with my own kid. That's why I pay good money to the local league - so my kid(s) can have someone else to play with. If I wanted and/or knew how to play soccer, I would never invest so much time and money in driving them to and from multiple practices and games; I'd just stay home. I have a backyard, you know. And driving around just happens to be my least favorite thing in the world. Besides playing soccer with other parents and our children.

I know what you're thinking: "But it's so much fun for the kids!"
I don't care. There are a lot of things that are fun for kids. I can't speak for anyone else's children, but mine have plenty of opportunities for fun. We don't have to do them all. And what happened to their being on a soccer team counting as fun enough?

Tell you what: just as soon as I want to play soccer, I'll go ahead and let you know. Until then, let me sit in my car with my book during practice, the way God intended. Just accept my thank you note and Jamba Juice gift card at season's end, and let's leave the soccer playing to the kids.

I'm begging you,


Andrea

Your Music Is a Wasteofair

John Mayer is the worst.

Worse than that, even.

Seriously. Does anyone actually like his music?

(sorry, if you do)

(no, not I'M sorry, just sorry)

I have had a lot of time on my hands in which I have had nothing else to do besides listen to Pandora.

And paint.

I mean a LOT of time: Hours. Days. Weeks. Months.

(crossing my fingers it doesn't become years)

And the one thing I have come away with is that John Mayer..., well, you heard me.

I want to write a letter to the editor of Pandora, telling him/her that Jack Johnson is in no way related to John Mayer, and that when I type in 'Jack Johnson Station' it is because I like him. Not John Mayer.

Sheesh.

I didn't realize he had so many songs!

What is going on?

I can see him producing a couple, but 25 gajillion? He has enough fans that he can get away with singing that often?

Hasn't anyone (else) caught-on to his cheesy, and frankly offensive to the intelligence of all human beings, formula:

Step #1. Say something nonsensical, but nonetheless illusionarily (it should be a word) profound. In five words or less.

Step #2. Repeat 400 times.

Step #3. Call it a song.

This is all I hear when I listen to his songs, "Hey, did you hear that? I was all...and then I was like...badabah...and then this really awesome thing. Betcha never even considered that kind of deep thinking coolness. Here, let me repeat it again in case you missed it. It's gonna blow your mind. Trust me. No? Here, let me say it just one more time..."

 400 times.

And, lest you think I have completely lost it and become a cynical song critic who gets way too worked-up over one silly artist, please take into consideration the amount of time I have spent painting lately: every little irritant is magnified while under the influence of paint fumes.

And John Mayer music.

Because I Need a Tiny Break From Worrying Over The Election

Dear Editor of The School Parking Lot,

I am writing to request a Proper Pick-Up Procedure Exemption Pass. I have been waiting patiently for mine to arrive in the mail, but have not yet received it.

At first I was troubled, and even annoyed by the seeming utter lack of consideration and blatant disregard for rules that almost all of the other parents show at the end of each school day. It baffled me that these otherwise kind and law-abiding citizens could have such an obvious loss of brain function, come 3:20 p.m. In fact, I considered doing a scientific study to determine how it is possible for every single person to be the exception to a rule.

Then it occurred to me that your office must have issued P.P.P.E.P.'s at the beginning of the year, as an incentive for adults to really get out there and be as clueless as possible. Suddenly it all made sense. It didn't assuage my rage, but it kept my acquisition-of-a-stun-gun instinct in check.

I know that the absence of my P.P.P.E.P. was simply some random oversight, or perhaps even a mistake on the part of the USPS. It has got to be hard to deliver those passes when they are invisible! No, I do not bear anyone ill will. I only ask that a new one be issued in my name and sent post haste.

I Look forward to many thoughtless lane changes, vacating my car in the pick-up line, picking up kids in the exit lane, exiting the entrance, and basic reckless abandon!

Truly (and ready to give several vehicles a not-so-gentle nudge) Yours,

Andrea

In Which I Unabashedly Reveal Myself to be Irreversibly Petty and Juvenile

I like to have the final word.

It's (one more) something I struggle with.

For this reason, Facebook is my Mt. Everest.

(if I knew what that meant, that is)

I have to will myself away from my keyboard sometimes, reminding myself to take the high road. Reminding myself that it does not matter whether or not a person thinks they have one-upped me.

(If I'm going to be perfectly honest, I actually don't have that much will power. Instead, I write scathing rebuffs and then delete them. It's great for diffusing my frustration, but I live in fear of pushing a wrong button and publishing one of them)

There are a couple people in my Facebook life who test the limits of my good manners in this regard.

(my good manners' limits are far from where they should be, despite a proper upbringing. Obviously)

I have very little patience with people who insist they know everything, and argue to that end on every subject.

I don't like to argue.

I like people to be polite when I make a statement.

Especially since most of the statements I make are complete balderdash. Rubbish. Off the cuff, blown out of proportion, in-the-heat-of-the-moment folderol.

I detest the Well, Actually man (or woman). And I think it's safe to say that my sentiments are repeated across the board:

No one likes a thrill-kill.

(around here, a 'well, actually' and a 'thrill-kill' are the same thing, just so you know)

It never ceases to amaze me that these Well, Actually people fail to notice social cues, and think that they are enlightening the rest of us;

That they don't understand that it's not our inferior intellect that keeps the rest of us from telling everyone how/what should/shouldn't be done in any given instance, but it is our etiquette;

That no one gives a flying flute what they think;

And especially that they ever get married!

(how could a spouse survive such an existence?)

I guess what I'm saying is this:

Please, please, PLEASE bless that I get to be present when all the super brilliant know-it-all, 20-somethings (and sometimes older) in my life suddenly grow up and realize how little they know.

Or how much the rest of us know, that we just keep to ourselves.

And that as those realizations dawn, I get to look smug and say,

"Hah! I knew it!"

Dear Editor of Teenagers

This morning I watched the news.

I only watch it for 30 minutes, three times/week when I do Elyptical at the gym.

And that is plenty (of both).

All the destruction.

All the devastation.

All the heartache.

All the fear.

That, I can (pretty much) handle.

But this morning's story made me want to scream.

Facebook Depression.

Dead. Serious.

It's a new phenomenon among teenagers, and apparently it is no laughing matter. Well, for me it is, but the newsroom was taking it pretty seriously (look it up. Because I'm too lazy to link).

I'm sorry (no, I'm really not), but if your kid is so spoiled, self-centered and/or has so much unsupervised access to social media that they are DE-flippin'-PRESSED...well, I am just at a loss for words to express my disgust.

If your kid has Facebook Depression, then they need some real problems to worry about.

Honestly. Sometimes I wonder whether all this wonderful American freedom and prosperity is making some of us ridiculous.

Call me crazy (again), but the juxtaposition of the Facebook Depression news report and Footage of Japanese Attending Funerals/Nuclear Reactors On The Verge of (more) Disaster made me ponder the future. It made me wonder what all these sissy teenagers being raised in our world are going to do when something REAL happens.

I mean, real things are already happening.

And we are reporting Facebook Depression.


*exasperated sigh*


p.s. I spent the weekend perusing this, one of my new favorite sites. Check it out. Unless you are a coddler (in which case, I wonder about your decision to read my blog, so move along), you will think it's awesome.

Whit-Woo

Who invented the cat call?

And what is the expected response, exactly?

Have you ever heard an old couple's love story start like this: "I was just walking down the road, when suddenly I heard the most lovely whistle, and well, the rest is history..."?

No. Cat calls do not precede real relationships. Or even dates.

I dare you to tell me you have ever walked over to a whistler, introduced yourself, and let him take you on a date because you were so impressed by his genuine interest in you.

So, what's the point?

Before the feminist in me gets all up in your grill, let me change the subject. Kind of.

I promised you a post on my recent grocery-shopping/being hit on experience (such a romantic combination), and I planned to deliver, but then I remembered another even better story. And even I am sick of my wordiness lately, so I'm going to break it up into several posts.

Starting another day.

A Post Almost as Big as My Nose

I try not to talk about movies.

Or books.

Because people take it personally when you have an opposing opinion.

I do it, too. I am instantly suspicious of anyone who doesn't like Napoleon Dynamite. Or Jane Eyre.

But this has to be said:

Last night we watched Avatar. I swore before God and my country (not really) that I would not watch it. Why? Because
1. It was a little too popular for my taste
2. It looked a little too science fiction-y (I loathe sci-fi. Unless Star Wars is considered sci-fi...then I love it. Sorry.)
3. My children call it "The Monkey Man Movie"
4. I don't believe in 3-D
5. It didn't appeal to me whatsoever

But Ty's brother swore before the big screen tv and surround sound (practically) that it was good. Like, really good.

Plus, it was free.

These are my thoughts:

I just wonder if there is, was, or could ever be in the future, some hot political agenda that was NOT in some way insinuated, blatantly pushed or alluded to in that movie?

It was like the writers made a spider graph of all the hot topics they could think of since the world began (or at least since America was founded). They must have just watched Surrogates and liked it, so they jammed that idea in there, too. Plus they grabbed Sigourney Weaver, cause nothing says legitimate alien movie like Sigourney Weaver. Then they spun a not-so-original and more than slightly predictable tale, but they made everyone BLUE. And sparkly. Cause apparently we're all pretty sensible until you throw something blue and sparkly at us. Then all the sudden the American public is hypnotized into spending out

$742,721,098!

Seriously? What a bunch of hypocrites. I want to know how much it cost (oh, wait, google says anywhere from $280 - 500 billion) to make that movie, and how many natural resources were destroyed in the process (google doesn't know what I'm talking about...do you?).

And are the proceeds being donated to a Save the World fund somewhere?

I doubt it.







p.s. It WAS visually amazing. I'll give you that. But that's not a real draw for me. I'm more interested in a good story. I think I could have enjoyed it, had it not been for the gratuitous "symbolism" and allusion. It was distracting. After about the fifth one, I just couldn't take it seriously anymore. Not even seriously enough to watch the destruction of a civilization of big blue, sparkly cat-monkeys.

p.p.s. It WASN'T as bad as I thought it would be.

p.p.p.s. I'm not AGAINST being "green" (or blue). But can't Hollywood just make a movie for my entertainment, and quit treating me like a wide-eyed idiot who has to be subliminally convinced to hate my country or recycle my gum wrappers?

p.p.p.p.s. I think I am disproportionately annoyed with this movie. Maybe I should get a hobby.

p.p.p.p.p.s. See? My nose IS big. And misshapen.