Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, celebrations, humor, national high five day, news, office etiquette, south, subourbonmom, work
Apparently, today is National High Five Day.
Seriously. Somebody made that a day of national recognition.
We’ll, if we’re going to give a celebratory gesture it’s own special day, I think we should also have “slap your team mate on the butt” day; or “dance in the end zone day;” or, for those who like to celebrate the stupidity of others, how about we make note of some of our most-used hand gestures?
Naturally, I Googled it. One website claimed the high five originated in the University of Virginia. Somehow I doubt that—I can’t really picture a bunch of Hoos in their khaki pants and blue shirts spontaneously jumping up and slapping hands—those hands would have been busy holding a bourbon bottle and a cup.
As a preschool teacher, I’m all about the high five, even though when I do them, the kids’ hands are usually sticky and covered in snot. What a simple, concrete way to show a child they did a great job on something!
I don’t, however, have any use for the high fives that sports teams make the players do with the opposing team in a conga-line at the end of their games. Several times, my kids have complained that the other teams have spit on their hands before doing the walk–classy. If leagues are going to make the players have contact after the game to show good sportsmanship, I think the players should have to shake hands and say “Nice Game” with the opponent they were lined up against—one at a time, in front of everybody. A little eye contact never hurts anybody, and it might just make some of these kids with bad sportsmanship think twice, either before the game or after.
Of course, if I didn’t like that team, I would do the dead fish handshake—nothing grosser than holding a limp, sweaty hand.
I’m not good at high-fiving. I often miss, which is awkward; and, because I have funky shoulders that dislocate, I tend to pull back at the last second—also awkward. The other person must either think they are freakishly strong, or that I suddenly didn’t like the way they smell. It’s even worse when I have my suitcase, er…purse, on that arm. Sometimes it cuts loose and swings forward, almost knocking the other person over. Then my high-five looks more like an assault.
But the worst part of doing a high five is when you’re left hanging.
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Tom Brady Can’t Get A High Five PSA – YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=72jydDzzyLQ
YouTubeJan 17, 2014 – Uploaded by coreman1017
Jan 17, 2014 – Uploaded by coreman1017
According to that bastion of truth, Wikipedia, this could be interpreted as an insult, friendly joke, or form of enlightenment, depending on the context of its use.
Form of enlightenment? What on earth does that mean?
Here’s what I picture:
(Worker, waving one, ignored high five hand in the air): “Hey! Don’t leave me hanging!”
(Colleague): “High fives are for children and have no place in our exceptionally stuffy office. You should be mature enough not to need physical acknowledgement of a job well-done. It would be better if you meditated on your achievement instead—if you found your center and breathed through your success.”
I high five (mostly little) people every day, and every day it makes us both smile, but I don’t think we need a national day to remind us to do it. Everyone needs encouragement and to celebrate a victory now and then. Patting one’s team mates/co-workers isn’t always PC, so why not high-five? Just don’t leave someone hanging, especially if his name is Chad. (Ba-dum-bum—silence…crickets…)
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, animals, Cat Urine, Cats, cleaning, dogs, family, humor, Mean Girls, middle school, mom, Pee, Pets, south, southern, Spring Break, subourbonmom, travel
Coming back to reality after Spring Break—a snow storm in March (Are you kidding me?) naturally sucks. Coming home to find the cats have spite-peed on your daughter’s bed REALLY sucks.
And it’s also kind of funny, in a twisted way. Just stick with me on this one.
In my house, the pets have aligned themselves with family members. Hubby gets the psycho kitty we nursed from the time she was 3 days old; Daughter #2 has the beast in the barn; Daughter #1 gets Isabella FATrice (Izzy), our pudgy, orange cat who treats everyone like staff; and by default, I get The Dog. Never mind the fact that I’m the one who gets up at six EVERY MORNING to feed them and let them out. For the most part, they simply tolerate me.
If Izzy (the orange cat) were to be on the game Survivor, she would probably be voted out near the end—she’s a leader who gets things done by being vocal and acting like she’s in charge, but in the end, it’s The Dog who would win, because The Dog flies under the radar, also getting what she wants but without the attitude.

The Dog: note the super-soft blanket and matching manicure (thanks Aussie Pet Mobile!) as she lounges on my side of the couch.
For years I’ve been secretly jealous of Daughter #1 and her relationship with the princess pussycat. It is like being in middle school all over again. The popular girls (Daughter #1 and Izzy) hang out exclusively, draped all over each other, gossiping and messing with each other’s hair. If I come in with some silly request like, “Please take the sheets off your bed so I can wash them,” I am met with an irritated meow. Pushing up my glasses (these days they’re “cheaters”), I retreat to the unpopular kids’ table (i.e. my room) and sulk. I’m clearly the lowest creatures on the social totem pole in our house (except for maybe the fish). By asking Daughter #1 to move Izzy, I have clearly imposed my presence on the popular girls’ space.
But as I took a bath on our first night home to ease my quads that were still burning from all the Spring Break hiking and zip-lining, I heard Daughter #1 through the wall:
Daughter #1: “Oh my God! Mooooooooommm!”
Me: (silence—I was ignoring them—bath time is sacred)
Daughter #1: “You guys, come in here and look at this!” (thumping as Daughter #2 enters the room.)
Daughter #2 starts laughing.
Both Girls: “Moooooooom!” (still silent) “Daaaaaaaad!” (also wisely silent)
Me: (I sigh and get out of the tub, knowing the alternative is a visitor, and all the bubbles have gone—always awkward.)
When I got to Daughter #2’s room she is nearly in tears. Apparently, despite having a litter box handy the whole time we were gone, one or both of the cats spite-peed in her bed—a massive puddle that told me they’d been saving for at least a couple of days. (The Dog hd been farmed out to my mom’s.)
I looked at the clock—it was late, and I was NOT going back to the store. So, I looked on-line for what I could use in the house, and quickly made up the extra bed for Daughter #2. (I’ve copied the instructions below, in case anyone else ever has this issue—it worked!!)
The upside of the whole event was watching the Popular Girl drama play out over the next couple of days. Izzy was banned from Daughter #1’s presence, sitting outside the bedroom, meowing, looking miserable and triumphant at the same time, like the best friend of the popular girl who managed to steal the popular girl’s boyfriend—the victory was soooo worth the short-term social ostracism to follow. When that didn’t work, Izzy switched “besties” and went to Daughter #2’s room. She took to hanging out there, sleeping on Daughter #2’s stomach all night. Daughter #2 was happy enough to have the company, but she’s never needed approval from the popular crowd.
Even though Daughter #1 might not admit it, Izzy’s defection bugged her. Eventually, she relented, and Izzy was accepted back into the popular girl club’s good graces, trailing after Daughter #1 all day like a remora near a shark, making mean-girl comments to anybody who walked by (me).
Now, if the cat does it again and I can’t get the stench out, the she will be expelled, or at least placed in some serious detention. But until then, I’ll just keep hovering in the social wings of our pet-centered home, hoping that maybe The Dog will let me have my spot back on the couch.
Here’s the recipe from Animal Planet for de-funking cat pee (it really worked!):
- Blot dry or if already dry, get wet with water and blot dry the excess urine.
- Soak with mixture of water and vinegar. Vinegar is great for killing bacteria. This mixture is perfect for both old and new stains. Try 1 1/2 cups of warm water and a ½ cup of vinegar. Pour this concoction over the stain and soak for about 3 to 5 minutes. Note: vinegar is not good for marble or stone.
- There’s nothing like good all-purpose baking soda. After the water and vinegar solution is dry, sprinkle the area with baking soda. How much is enough? A lot.
- You’re not done just yet with the homemade remedies. Mix 3/4 cup of three percent hydrogen peroxide (you know you have some under your bathroom sink) with 1 teaspoon of dish detergent. Sprinkle this solution over the baking soda and test a small spot. You need to do this because sometimes peroxide can discolor or bleach fabrics (source). Work the baking soda into the fabric or carpet.
- It’s time to let the mixtures dry for a few hours (I did 36 hours). Once the spot’s good and dry, vacuum the excess baking soda. If the stain is extremely tough, repeat the entire process again.
- If homemade mixing is not your thing, there are commercial products on the market that work well too. Make sure to look for cleaners that contain enzymes because they work to break down the urine and neutralize the odor (source). Make sure you follow the instructions carefully on these products.
- Just because you can’t see the stain, doesn’t mean you can’t smell the stain. Deodorizing must be part of the equation. Once again, baking soda and a mixture of detergent and water will help minimize odors.
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Posts, Spring Break, Travel | Tags: adulthood, adventure, Caribbean, champagne, family, French, humor, islands, Loterie Farm, Middle-Age, sports, Spring Break, St. Maarten, subourbonmom, travel, zip-lines
Day Three of Spring Break, St. Maarten:
Today was one of those perfect days you fantasize about when you’re scraping the windshield and cursing the fact that you didn’t get that finicky backseat window in your car fixed before winter hit.
Our intrepid leader Mark and his up-for-anything assistant Stazzi took us to a place called The Loterie Farm (pronounced “Lottery Farm,”), an oasis in the middle of St. Maarten that offers an idyllic infinity pool with cabanas you can rent, straight out of “Who The Hell Lives Like That?” magazine. (This is the genre of magazine that features houses with all-white furniture and carpets, and ads for curtains that cost more than my snow-covered car.) For the more adventurous, there is a network of zip-lines and hiking trails throughout the jungle.
Before we left, there was the usual 45 minutes of trying to round up seven people and all of their gear for the day:
Me: “Does anyone have the bug spray? Did you put sunscreen on? No you didn’t—you’re not shiny enough. Put it on—not here, outside! Did you bring sneakers? You can’t zip-line in flip flops…”
Everyone else: “Mommmm…”
Eventually, Mark and Stazzi managed to corral all of us into the rental van. When we arrived at The Loterie Farm, we entered the pool area and plunked our gear down. What a surprise! We were a loud, laughing group of Americans invading a quiet and serene European setting–no wonder they hate us. A frowning French waiter brought a complementary bucket of champagne, which made me salivate like a dog looking at a steak, but that would have to wait—there was zip-lining to do first. After all, I do have a little bit of a work ethic.
The zip-lining was as fun as it was exhausting – I definitely recommend it to anyone with a sense of adventure. After and hour of straining muscles over a ropes course and clipping and un-clipping ourselves to various cables and trees, the tired Fam plodded down the last wooden ramp to the fix-it-yourself rum punch bar—seriously, they had that. I love Island People. The more athletic and wise among us (Daughters 1&2) made do with water. Dripping with jungle sweat from squatting and zipping and maneuvering my not-as-limber-as-I-thought body around, I went back for champagne and my bathing suit.
Guess who didn’t bring hers?
Hubby, already in his suit and ready to get into the pool and cool off with a glass of the bubbly, saw me getting ready to FTFO and took me to the Teeny, Tiny boutique that was there just for forgetful people like me, to buy a suit. Everything in that boutique was Teeny Tiny, including The Loterie Farm Dog, a Chihuahua named Felly who periodically got the “zoomies” and ran in circles before collapsing in the grass ( I think I lost 20 minutes just watching him). The only things not Teeny Tiny were the price tags. Of course, the Teeny Tiniest things in the boutique were the bathing suits. And Ladies, in case you were wondering, Land’s End tank-inis don’t exist in Europe or The Islands, except on suburban-American moms. We may think we are camouflaging the muffin-tops in them, but the rest of the world can spot us a mile away, and they shrink back in horror.
What I ended up purchasing was a band-aide-sized, black and white bikini that, next to my sunburned skin, made me look like a zebra with a bad case of mange. You could clearly see the tan lines left by my forgotten suit.
Mortified, I wrapped a towel around my waist, trying desperately to ignore the fact that there was air coming down the back of the bottoms because—yes, it’s gross, but true—I’m pretty sure I actually had crack showing. Classy.
But, after a delicious tapas meal and a couple (make that several) boat drinks over which we solved the problems of the world, I was no longer mortified. In fact, I felt kind of French—I had a too-small bathing suit, lack of inhibitions, and an attitude of undeserved privilege—or is that more like a recent college grad? It’s hard to tell the difference, except for the accent.
Either way, I decided it was a pretty nice way to spend time on vacation; and since Daughters 1 & 2 are closer to graduating than I will ever be again, I’ll just have to become French. Oui?
“Mommmmm…”
“I know, I know. Put some more sunscreen on. You’re not shiny enough.”





