Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Crarents, Croms, and Kralae's

Being a hairstylist, in a partially ritzy part of town, I meet a lot of young successful individuals. I enjoy meeting these individuals, given they can carry on a conversation about the upcoming election, their gammy's upcoming 90th birthday, or how crummy their day has been; and  tip well. If you can't afford to tip, go to Gr**t Cl**s. You get what you pay for. Anywhoos - I have noticed a trend lately that said individuals are going into the same profession that their parents are.

Sure, stick to what you know.

Or are all these individuals getting a shoe-in?

Parents are ridiculous these days.

If I messed up as a kid..especially in the last few years, and boy have I, my parents took the tough love route and made me figure out a solution on my own, only stepping in if need be to avoid any serious consequences. But I for sure don't do what my parents do, nor what my parents wanted me to do, which is not what they do. Kapish?

I understand all parents and families are different, sure, go ahead and put in a good word for your offspring at your law firm. That's one thing; actively creating your child's resume, setting up interviews, even going on these interviews; is another.

Ridiculous, right? But it's true. Some parents think it best for their child if they never let them deal with their own life, always having a hand in their every move. I believe the term is "helicopter parents," and I see how that would make sense, but it would imply something far cooler, like they are half-person half-helicopter and have the ability of flight, or at least to hover. So I prefer to call them "Overbearing Parents," as it is much more to the point and implies nothing remotely cool at all. Listen, my own mother is an Overbearing Parent.

Once, when I was in junior high school, she called up my ceramics teacher to protest my deserved B instead of an A, which would have been very clearly undeserved. I tried to tell her not to, but she was intent on sticking up for me, in that she wanted me to get into a good college. So, she had good intentions, but ultimately the teacher hated me, and rightly so. But that was the extent of her Overbearing Parent-ness, and she learned to let me take care of myself, and I have learned that if I ever take an adult ceramic class, I will not talk to Susie the whole time about our mutual crush on Johnny, and I will make that pinch pot in the allotted amount of time.

If you're an Overbearing Parent, let's have a one-on-one convo, right now. Pretend like I'm doing that hand gesture thing where I point two fingers to my eyes and then point them at your eyes. Yeah, that's how serious I am about this right now. Since I can't hear you, I will make up your dialogue as I assume you would respond. So, I'll play me, and you play Overbearing Parent (OBP).

Me: You have to stop being overbearing and let your child find their way in this world using the tools with which you've provided them. 

OBP: Sometimes I can hear the ocean in my shoe.

Me: Hey, that's a good idea! Maybe it's time you took a vacation! You are stressing yourself out with taking on all your child's responsibilities.

OBP: Want to hear my Ray Charles impression? La la la la.

Me: That sounds nothing like Ray Charles. Listen, the point is to do as much as you can until your child leaves, and then to provide support, but let them lead their own....

OBP: Sometimes I eat nothing but cranberries!

Me: Well, that can't be too healthy. You are a crazy parent.

OBP: I am Crarent, hear me roar!

Me: I am glad we had this talk.

Well, that was certainly an informative conversation. I find it appropriate to now drop the term "Overbearing Parent" and adopt "Crarent". It's catchy and also sounds like some sort of delicious dried fruit. Also, the Crarents thought of it themselves, so they may take full ownership of it and not be offended. 

Welp...I've just gotten word that the Crarents are offended, and by "Crarents" I mean "my mother". I've agreed to let her share her side of the story, as she disagrees with my views on the ceramics teacher phone call. Okay, Mom, you have the floor. Don't embarrass me.

A Memo From Kym Loudenslager
Mother to Kalae Loudenslager, and non-crarent
Hello everyone, I am not used to writing in this type of format. I'm far more comfortable with legal briefs, which I write frequently so that I may support my children, specifically, Kalae, as she wastes her time writing in an online diary about how her parents mucked her up and continue to do so. Except she doesn't use the word "mucked," does she? She prefers to be vulgar. She certainly did not learn that language from me. She probably picked it up at one of the many taverns she frequents. Oh please, don't misunderstand me; I appreciate the irony of writing a blog post complaining about one's parents as one types on a brushed-steel $3,000 dollar lap top that my 100 hour work weeks bought for a certain someone. Anyway, as far as the ceramics incident goes, I called up Kalae's ceramics teacher Kalae's SENIOR year of high school. This seems to have slipped Kalae's mind conveniently, as she has failed to remember that she came down with a case of senioritis that rendered her unable to fulfill her pinch-pot requirements in the slacker/hippie class she thought she could just coast through and get an easy A. Kalae tearfully complained to me that her teacher was being unfair, and that having a B on her transcript would seriously impede her from getting into the college of her choice. So, at KALAE'S REQUEST, I made a call to her art teacher, who calmly explained to me that Kalae had not completed her assignments, and could but only give her a B, and that was being generous. When I informed Kalae of my call, she yelled at me for making her look like a spoiled brat to her teacher. Like she needed any help from me. But now, because of that one incident, I'm a "crarent." Well, let me tell you something little miss my-parent's-mucked-me-up.....

Okay, thanks Mom! 

Wow, it's amazing how different people have different perspectives on history, isn't it!? 

By the way, I have a new, adorable name for my mom...she can be called "crom"! It sounds like something a bird would screech. When said bird is angry and not thinking rationally about past events...Crom! Crom! Anyways, thanks Crom!

A Memo from Kym Loudenslager: My name is not Crom
It seems as though my daughter has thought up a new nickname for me, "Crom." However, my name is not Crom, it is Kym Loudenslager. I find it incredibly disrespectful that she would find it appropriate to call me "Crazy Mom" after all I have done for her. What if I started calling her Kralae? Hey everybody, it's Crazy Kalae, let's call her Kralae! How would she like that? Not at all, I'm sure.

And I'm seriously considering not placing the phone call she asked me to make to her neighbor that sometimes makes soup that smells weird and gives her nightmares. You can just go ahead and have those nightmares, Kalae. See what I care! Okay, fine, I'll make the call, but I will not be referred to as Crom!

A message from Me to Crom:

Dear Crom, 

I never said that "Crom" stood for "Crazy Mom." I should have specified,  actually it stands for "Crikey, Mom!" As in, "Crikey, Mom, you've done so much for me!" Also, Kralae doesn't have the same ring to it as Crarent or Crom. I'm sorry, it just doesn't quite roll off the tongue the same. No matter, let's put these differences behind us. I am just trying to find an equilibrium for our relationship and along the way help others to do the same. So, if you could, for like, two minutes, stay out of my business, that would be great. Well, stay out of my business after you make that call to my neighbor. I think it's a Curry Soup or something. Thanks, Crom.

Love,
Kalae

A message from Me to everyone besides Crom:

It appears my mother has cut me off. Great. Just great. Now I can't afford enough diet coke to keep me hydrated as I suffer from sleep deprivation due to my inhalation-of-curry-soup-caused nightmares! 
However, I am a selfless person. So I will soldier on, despite certain hardships ahead. 

****

Believe it or not, this is not my first foray into philanthropy. I have for a long time lent my talents and support to other organizations and peoples who need my help. I would like to now provide you with my resume of philanthropic work:

YMCA 
Fargo, North Dakota 1996-1998
When I was 6 I participated in a youth basketball league in which I shot at hoops that were 6 feet high (as opposed to 10ft regulation) and I never complained. A complaint would have surely shut down the YMCA, depriving many children of after-school activities, so I effectively saved the YMCA of Cass County at age 6.

Bonnie Haney School of Dance
Fargo, North Dakota 1999-2012
I was enrolled in dance class, where I learned such steps as the fox trot, the waltz, and the cha-cha-cha. I danced with boys whom were much shorter than myself, which made them feel incredibly uncomfortable, and I made them feel this acutely, telling them repeatedly to stop staring at my rack. They carried this lesson of humility with them, so that when they were old they harkened back to the ballroom-dancing days of shame whenever they were about to be a jerk to a girl. This resulted in many boys in the FM-Area being very respectful to girls. 

Moorhead Youth Soccer
Moorhead, MN 2007-2008
As a senior in high school I coached tiny five-year-olds
in the art of soccer. Tiny five-year-olds play soccer with a
pack mentality, with no regard for spacing or strategy. It’s
quite adorable to see twenty little kids frantically move
from one side of the field to the other as one … until you
realize that that is no way to play soccer and if they continue
to move as a pack they will never have a sense of individuality.
So, I started a series of rumors about each of
the children that turned them against each other (“Lila
says that Matty smells”), and this lead them to want to stay
far away from each other, especially Matty, since everyone
thought that he smelled. As a result, we had the best spacing
of the entire league and went on to win at least two
more games than we had anticipated. Yes, no one was in a
celebratory mood because they had all been turned against
each other, but the important thing is that we won and the
kids learned to look out for number one.



Boom.

Make your children earn their place in this world. 






Saturday, August 4, 2012

John Smith is...

If I never saw these ten things on a Facebook status again, I wouldn't be upset.


1) The Boyfriend Report.


"John Smith is...thinking about my boyfriend CONSTANTLY!!! <333 XOXOXOXO"


Every time you write something like this, you make it that much harder for me to be sympathetic when you're "HEART</3BROKEN :(((((((" two days later.


2) The Vague Expression of Passive Aggression


"John Smith is...wonders why in someone's darkest times I help them, but when things are going rough for me, that someone is no where to be seen!"


Gee, why don't you just tag the person you got in a fight with two hours ago. Are you hoping to make all your friends worry that you're mad at them? The comment section on these is even better:


Jane Doe: OMG, you're not mad at me, are you!?
John Smith: Oh no, hunny. OMG, I love you! Someone just doing something they shouldn't. Just someone.
Susie Johnson: It's not me, is it!?
John Smith: ROFL...no...someone else...


..It's just a process of elimination after this point.


3) The Inside Joke


"John Smith is...Koala Bears in the what what? Hahaha"


You know, they have this new thing where you can edit what groups of people see your status. Why not do that rather than make everyone other than the two peoples who know what the hell you're talking about read this and have their heads explode while they try to figure out how you came in contact with a koala bear and just what your "what what" is.


4) The Ode To Life


"John Smith is...Crazy pancakes after a fan-freaking-tastic party at Henry's! I love my liiiiife!"


I don't care.


5) The Cursed Life


"John Smith is..I just found out that I'm adopted and my real parents are Bavarian gypsies! FML!"


FML = TMI...brah..


6) The Declaration Of Love To A Really Bad Pop Culture Phenomenon As If You're The Only Moron That Likes It


"John Smith is...BATMAN is AMAZING! Everyone should see it!"


I'm confused, are you talking to the four people that haven't seen it? Thank you for exposing us to this hidden gem. Aside from the record-breaking gross and the Oscar nominations, I never would have heard about it.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back under my rock and see if I have enough change for a movie ticket. Those cost a few nickels more now, right?


7) The Song Lyrics Dedicated To Whomever You Just Had Sex With


"John Smith is...And your body is/My Ferris wheel/I loved getting stuck/At the top ;)"


Just so we're clear, it's 2am, your soul mate of the week just blitzed you a "text ya tomorrow" line and bailed. This declaration of love, and/or orgasm, doesn't make your hookup any less trashy. 


8) The Compliment Fisher


"John Smith is...I'm the worst person ever. Someone just shoot me."


Am I the only one who sees statuses like this and wants to comment with, "Yeah, you really are. You should find a bottle of something, anything, and drink the whole thing. So glad you realized this without any of the rest of us having to tell you, what a load off!"


9) The Bar Tab


"John Smith is...Still soooo wasted from last night. Threw up on myself. Hahaha..who wants to go out tonight?"


If I wanted to know how your inevitable alcoholism was going, I'd ask. I'll just wait and catch ya on the new season of Intervention in a few years. 


10) The Awesome Vacation That Only You're On


"John Smith is...Watching a tropical sunset on a beautiful island in the Pacific. Life is glorious, isn't it?


Fuck you.






..I realize Facebook no longer defaults your status' to "John Smith is..", but I think it should. That was a good deal the old Zuckerberg had goin...along with the old format....Timeline..pfft.









Sunday, June 17, 2012

Vagina jokes aren't funny. Period.

So I haven’t been writing  many blog posts because my computer broke, but this week I didn’t write any blog posts because I was too pissed off to write.
And what, you ask, happened to piss me off to such an extent?

Well, now, that’s the fun part. Because nothing happened. Nothing at all. Nada.

Unless you count THAT THING.

That thing that happens once a month. That thing that turns me, within seconds, into a stark raving mad specimen of humanity – a walking nutjob.

I’m fine. And then OMG I’M NOT.

That thing that makes me want to punch strangers in the throat for chewing too loudly, cry, scream, and eat all simple carbohydrates in a five-mile radius. That thing that makes me question the meaning of life while weeping at a car commercial and screaming at my roommate's son to STOP MAKING NOISE.

Oh yeah. You know what I’m talking about. They call it “PMS.”

For the record, I think that is the stupidest name IN THE WORLD for such a thing.

I have some better ones. More descriptive. Accurate.

Such as: “Pissed off, Maniacal and Starving” or “Pending Marital Separation” or “Psychotic, Melodramatic, and Seething,” or “Pardon My Satanic-nature.”

Those are just some ideas.

You think I’m kidding? You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not.

“Pre-menstrual Syndrome…” Bullshit. That sounds so innocuous, like it ain’t that big of a deal.

Well I’m here to speak for those of us women who TURN INTO MONSTERS for a few days each month and pretty much have no capacity to change it. I’m always slightly amazed my boyfriend hasn't broken up with me after this "special time".

Men, listen up. This shit applies to you too.

At any rate, check it out: once a month, about a week before my period, I’m sitting there minding my own business when all the sudden, out of freaking nowhere, drifts into my reality a dark, cold haze. It enters every cell of my skin, right through to my bones. I feel it sinking in, a discomfort. An irritation. Like a fly buzzing just outside my ear. I feel it course through my veins. An anxiety. An angst. And I want to break things.

When it hits my ears they become more sensitive. When it hits my brain it becomes confused, scattered, anxious. When it hits my eyes they begin to only see the shit that annoys me. They see only negative.

And when it hits my heart, my heart gets heavy. It becomes a thousand pounds. My emotions burst from it in quick flashes of pain and agony and existential contemplation. What IS the meaning of life? Why AM I here? WHY didn't that motherfucker tip me more than two dollars for a phenomenal haircut?

But mostly…WHY IS MY BEST FRIEND/ROOMMATE SO FUCKING ANNOYING?

Why am I cohabitating in the first place?

Why don't I make more money so I can afford a 1 bedroom with all the amenities?

Why don't I have kids?

Would I like my kids?

Why am I so fat?

I wish I were 18 again.

Why aren’t I 18?

I need a scone.

And there’s that FUCKING FLY.

SHUUUUUUT UP!

It’s never shutting up.

It’s here. “People Must Surrender,” because I’m fucking insane. For a few days, I am insane. Women who get PMS like me should get a break from their lives. We should get a handicapped parking spot. We should get special pills and massages and a camp or something with nothing but silent people, trees and hot tubs.

Why? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because once a month:
  1. I am not responsible for the shit that comes out of my mouth. I don’t even know who the fuck is saying it but I KNOW IT AIN’T ME. That bitch is crazy.
  2. I am not responsible for the shit I put into my mouth (Yes, I just said I am not responsible for the stuff going in or out of my mouth.)
  3. I want to crawl in a hole and weep and die, though it’s unclear to me exactly why.
  4. I cannot recall why anything in my life is the way it is and I’m pretty sure it’s ALL WRONG. (But there’s nothing you can do to fix it so don’t even try because it’s never getting better and that’s just the way it is you fucktard.)
  5. I am no use to my boyfriend (because it’s all his fault).
  6. I am no use to my friends (because they’re so irritating I can’t spend more than 5 minutes near them).
  7. I am no use to my coworkers (because everyone's face is irritating me somehow).
  8. I am bloated. And nobody likes that. But I can't drink water or get to the gym or do anything other than eat chocolate and caffeine because I'm comforting myself with food and beverage even though I'm going to regret it and I'm getting fatter by the fucking minute but OMG there's that FLY and IT WON'T STOP BUZZING
Dude. No really. Let’s start a PMS camp.

Some medical site describes the emotional PMS symptoms as follows: “tension, irritability, mood swings or crying spells, anxiety, depression.”

Summarization:

Fuck you.
You irritate me.
Please don't ever leave me.
My GOD why are you so annoying?
No wait, I'm sorry I'm such a bitch.
I want to move to Freemont, West Virginia.
Holy shit, I'm fucking hungry.

It’s good to be back. In more ways than one.