Close Call

Thanks for all your kind words yesterday in the comments.  I am hoping that my brother decides to find another caregiver for my elderly father soon (no easy task, I know that); in the meantime, I just had to vent.  Her arrogance just stunned me.  How hard is it to be kind?

And, in good news, I narrowly avoided incurring hundreds of dollars in damages today.  You see, when I park, I normally choose to park far away from other cars.  But today I had Susie in the car, and it was raining; so, against my better judgment, I tried to angle in between a mid-size truck and a mini-Cooper that, unfortunately, began to pull out just as I was pulling in to my space.  Startled, I edged too much to my right and heard the horrific sound of SCRAAAAAAPE as I parked.

I swear, it was deafening.

A very dangerous place...

I had to back up (again, "SCRAAAAAAPE" - ouch), swing to the left, and park before I could jump out and survey the damage, all the while exercising superhuman restraint to hold in a whole slew of swear words as I pictured the repair bill that would soon be winging its way toward me -- all because I had been too lazy to park in the outer reaches of the lot.  Dammit, I kept saying (to myself) as I unbuckled and walked around the back of my van.  What the heck happened?  How could I have done something SO STUPID?  And what was the point of visiting a crowded shopping center for a 2-for-1 pizza special if I'm going to end up paying the equivalent of 48 pizzas to fix someone else's car?

And then?  A miracle.  The truck I sideswiped happened to have those bumpers that are made of a rubbery plastic, along with raised trim around the wheel wells made of the same.  Not a scratch.  Nothing.  I looked at my car, which hadn't fared quite so well; but still, a scratch down the passenger side of my own vehicle was a small price to pay for my lack of parking expertise.

I unbuckled Susie and showed her that Mommy really hadn't done any damage (because we all KNOW Larry would hear her report first thing when he walked in the door at dinnertime, right?).  As we were standing there marveling at the resiliency of whatever material that bumper was made of, a youngish guy carrying some takeout lunch approached the truck, looking a tad puzzled at the sight of my matronly self fondling his wheel well trim.

"Oh, hi!" I said to him, almost giddy.  "I thought I wrecked your car, but I didn't!  See?  Nothing!"

"Um, yeah?" he said, apparently unsure of the proper etiquette in such situations.

"Yeah, look!" I said, gesturing at the bumper.  "See?  I scraped all along here, but there's no mark!"

Still eyeing me uneasily, he turned his attention to his truck and even ran his hands over the area I indicated to check for damage.

"See?"  I said.  "Perfectly all right!"  He still looked puzzled.  "Look at my car!" I told him.  "Now THAT's a scratch!  But your truck is fine!"  He looked and nodded, hesitantly.

"So, uh, we're good, right?" I asked, uncertain myself as to how to proceed.  "Do you want my info?"

"Um, no," he said.  "No, that's okay," and hurried into his vehicle.

Gosh, you'd think he'd be more grateful to me for not wrecking his truck, right?

Stranded

Well!  I've gone missing (not that anyone necessarily noticed), because I took a quick train ride up to see my dad, who had recently gotten out of the hospital and who has a new caregiver.

She came with a sterling recommendation, my brother says.  She feeds my father super-healthy food and keeps him impeccably clean.  Soon after I arrived, this caregiver (an older Jamaican woman I will hereafter refer to as the Voodoo Priestess) handed him his sunglasses.  Frustrated, my dad tossed them on the floor, where they disappeared under a cabinet.  Before we could stop him, he got down on his hands and knees to look for them; and, of course, he couldn't get back up.  I ran to help him, while the caregiver stayed where she was and scolded him.  "What are you doing down there?  What are you thinking?  Don't do that again!"

Me: "Could give me a hand here?  He's stuck.  I need help lifting him."

VP: "He shouldn't be doing that!  Who does he think he is?  He is not to throw his sunglasses!"  She walked over to him and bent over, in order to berate him more effectively.  "Stop that!"

Me: "I think we need to pick him up.  You can yell at him later, okay?"

Yikes.

Later, referring to his birthday, I mentioned to her my dad's advanced age.  "Stop that!" the voodoo priestess yelled, at me this time.  "Time - it is a human construct.  It means NOTHING.  He is not old.  You are making him old.  It is all in his MIND."

As the weekend progressed, it turned out that a lot of things were all in his mind: his age, his spreading cancer, his allergies that were making his eyes swell and his nose run constantly - all constructs of the mind.  "Look," I told her.  "He needs antihistamines.  He has some here, so he must have taken them before."

She looked askance at the proffered bottle.  "These - these pills are POISON.  They are no good.  I can make him better.  These pills - they CANNOT."

Words fail me at describing the weekend.  The caregiver's arrogance, her bullying, her anger - and my brother sitting there, saying, "Yeah, but she cooks really well."  I left for the train home, sick at heart.  The voodoo priestess had no interest in learning who my father was - no interest in hearing that he was a Depression-era child, raised on a farm and - later - in Brooklyn; a young man drafted into the US Army to fight WWII; a soldier who helped liberate the camps that were full of his Old World relatives; a father who had lived in this same house for over 60 years, who worked hard to pay for it and to raise his children in it.  A man who used to have friends, friends that are all now long gone.

My father is a person stranded in time, left behind, as it were, an old man burdened with half a memory -- and a caregiver lacking even a modicum of humility in the face of a long life bravely lived.

[Fun fact - Jerry Garcia is playing steel guitar in this version of "Teach Your Children."]

Backwards And In High Heels

Larry and David are out this evening, at the homeschool prom. 

Gosh, that sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, doesn't it?  The homeschool prom, part Geography Bee, part Bible verse recitation contest! 

Larry is one of the chaperones.  David, let it be said, has attended under duress, having no interest whatsoever in an event that does not involve airplanes or computers.  Given that most of his friends will be in attendance, we're pretty sure he'll have a good time, anyway.  And besides, I was just dying to see him in a tie.

David can't do ANY of this with his hair.

Let me say right here, it is way easier to send a boy to the prom than a girl.  During the years Anna attended prom, several weeks would be spent in search of the right dress and shoes.  On the day of the big event, she would depart about 3:00 in the afternoon for a friend's house, where a number of girls were assembling with dresses, shoes, full make-up kits, and hair accessories at the ready.  (And let me praise the saintly nature of the mother who hosted this gathering.)  The girls then spent upwards of 2 hours preparing their toilettes and modifying their dresses to suit the dress code, before they set out for the actual prom location. 

David, on the other hand, wandered into his room at 5:30 this afternoon, threw on his khaki pants, dress shirt, blazer, and dress shoes; he then sauntered downstairs, where Larry showed him how to put on one of his ties.  They walked out the door at 5:45, leaving me feeling as though we must have forgotten something.  15 minutes?  Really?

No wonder guys always seem so much less stressed.


[Bonus points to anyone who recognizes where the title of this post comes from!]

[Prom hair image: Camille - La Vie]

Wheels For Women Approaching 50

SCARY

You know how, occasionally, you are inconvenienced by having to view a small ad atop one of my posts?  Well, those pesky ads have earned me a brand new bicycle.  I did have a bicycle, already, actually -- one of those skinny-tires, turned-over-handlebars type of conveyance that I used to be able to ride, way back when.  But I'm older now, and I've developed a healthy fear of all these stupid squirrels that dash out in front of me on the bike path; also, I'm terrified of the possibility of falling and breaking every bone in my body and being bedridden for 3 months, as my children grow feral and my house becomes worthy of being condemned.  The upshot of which is that I haven't actually ridden my bicycle in almost 10 years.

A decade.

So, last fall, as I tried to jog after my 3 youngest on their bikes on our way to ChikFilA, it occurred to me that I needed to procure a more middle-age-friendly bicycle.  One that doesn't put me way high up in the air, one without a bar that gets in the way should I need to dismount suddenly.

An old lady bike.

Electra Townie 21D - my new ride

 I saw this recommended over at MamaPundit;  see how the pedals are placed forward of the seat, so you don't have to sit as high up?  As soon as I had enough money saved up, I marched over to my local bike shop (with Larry and Susie in tow) to check it out.


Do you know how hard it is to get back on a bicycle after a decade away?  I was shaking.  "C'mon, pedal," Larry hissed in my ear, while the (ridiculously young) bike shop guy stared at me and wondered why the hell I wasn't testing the bicycle already.  "I can't," I hissed back. What saved me was Susie standing there, expectantly, saying, "Try it, Mommy!"  How could I lose face in front of my youngest?  No way.  So I lowered that seat as far down as it would go, and wobbled off into the sunset.

This isn't a paid promotion; I'm just excited about my new bike, and I figure there are other women of a certain age out there that are looking for something similar.  But, hey, if the makers of the Electra Townie want to throw that fun handlebar market basket my way, I totally wouldn't mind.  I think it would complete the old-lady look nicely.

A Crotchety Plea For Old-Fashioned Play

Further evidence that the world is going to heck in a handbasket - toddlers addicted to electronic devices.  Do I even need to comment on this?  Do you realize that, when I first started raising my kids over 21 years ago, all I had to worry about was keeping them from watching too much TV?  This was an extraordinarily easy proposition, considering that we couldn't afford cable and that our TV at the time was a 13-inch hand-me-down with a fuzzy screen. 

Now?  I still have young-ish kids, and attempting to keep them mostly screen-free is becoming a somewhat quixotic quest, one that -- at times -- almost makes me weep.  Their friends come over with the Internet in their pockets.  I have to confiscate smartphones and similar devices at the door.  (Yes, I'm THAT mom.)  Of course, at their friends' houses, there are probably different rules.  I have to trust that the parents at least restrict the kids to somewhat harmless content.

Healthier than Minecraft.  Really.

But it isn't really the content so much that bothers me.  It's the activity (or lack thereof) itself.  It's not the screen time, per se, but what screen time replaces.  Remember Legos?  Board games?  Cards?  Jump rope?  Any of those activities are healthier for a developing brain than gazing at a screen, no matter how clever or complex the game displayed thereon might be. 

You see, staring at a screen makes the child a consumer, not a creator.  I've watched my kids playing, and I'm not impressed with what I see.  The child behaves like a sophisticated sort of lab rat, trained to push the right levers to get its rewards.  The body posture, the focus on the screen, the jerky movements, the constant pushing to the next level - NOT NORMAL.  These games, fun as they might be, are only poor 21st-century substitutes for real play.

Real play - does anyone even know what that is, anymore?


[Child with IPad: The Telegraph]
[Monopoly: Freewebs]

This And That, And Some Excellent Movies

Like this, but with better hair...

Thanks to everyone who added their ideas to our list of useful seminars for parents of teens in the last post's comments!  Head on over there to enjoy such ideas as Siblings Without Rivalry, Because You're the Common Enemy (Sarah) and The Audacity of Hope: Waking Teens Before Noon (from Not Beehive, who has no blog and the world is surely the poorer for it).  We should definitely make these a reality. 

Alternatively, a friend of mine suggested having a radio show like Car Talk, only the callers would be parents of teens looking for advice.  Oh, my goodness, this would be so awesome and funny.  NPR?  Call me.

The movie nights I enjoy with my friend have led to our discovery of an awesome Danish director named Susanne Bier.  If you enjoy movies with complex, multifaceted characters and don't mind subtitles, you HAVE to check out After the Wedding, Brothers, and In A Better World.  If, on the other hand, you think Airplane was a great movie, just forget it.  (Yes, Larry, I'm talking to you.)

Oh, my Lord, this is so NOT US.

Larry and I spent the day trying to get our stinkbug-attracting pop-up camper ready for our trip to Theo's graduation in May.  He opened it up in the parking lot in order to fix something electrical, while I inventoried supplies; in other words, we looked for all the world like one of those happy camping families that you would see in a camping gear advertisement.  Neighbors stopped by and ooh'ed and aah'ed over our little set-up, to the point that even I was fooled into thinking that it was all EASY and FUN.  

But it isn't.  It really isn't.  Susie climbed into the camper at one point and said, "It's so big!  I don't remember its being so big!"

Of course, you don't, honey.  The last time you saw the camper, we had just spent 8 days living in it; and, believe you me, it felt VERY SMALL by that point.

And...that's all I've got tonight, folks.  Just sitting up late, nursing a migraine and trying not to puke, actually.  Life is so much fun sometimes.


[Tom and Ray image: King Features]
[Camping image: TLC]

Seminars For Parents Of Teens

Patience Crabstick (and how much do I love that blog name?) offered some great suggestions for additional parent education seminars in the comments to my previous post.  Here then is our current list:

 "How To Talk So Your Teen Will Shut Up and Do the Dishes Already"

"What To Expect When You're Expecting Your Teen Home by 11 and It's Past Midnight"

"The Magic Years - They're Long Over, So Stop Scrapbooking and Make Sure To Install a 5-Camera Security System on the Exterior of Your House."

Looks like a good place for a seminar, right?

The following are from Patience:

You, Your Teen, and the Police

Are You There, Child? It's Me, Mommy. Answer Your Damn Phone.

The Crimson Tide: When Mothers and Daughters Menstruate at the Same Time and How To Cope
 
Anyone care to add some more?  Maybe we should convene at least an annual convention for the dissemination of this valuable information.  In a suitably restorative location, of course....

[Tropical beach image: By Guillaume Baviere (Flickr: 2010-07-14) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons]

Missing My Paycheck

I drive David and his friends to Civil Air Patrol every Tuesday evening, and then I go to a local Starbucks (with a fireplace and lots of seating) to get some work done until it is time to pick them up.  I've been doing this for 4 years now, and we're pretty much settled into this routine.  I am a creature of habit, you know; and I loves my routines.

Only now? I'm unemployed.  I started my editing job just before David joined CAP at age 12, I'm realizing; so now, for the first time, I have no real reason to be sitting here waiting for the kids to finish their activity.  And you know what else?  Surfing the Internet is way more fun when you are avoiding work than when you simply have nothing to do.  It's true. 

I've brought my knitting, of course.  But I'm not sure I can knit for 2 solid hours without anyone to talk to.  That would be sort of crazy-making for me.  Also, shockingly enough, no one pays me to do that.  I definitely need a new job, but I'm beginning to think that my current method of looking for work (sitting around and waiting for a job to land in my lap) isn't going to do the trick.

Life is so unfair.

But hey - a friend and I have a business idea: we're going to open a therapy/support center specifically for the parents of teens.  There would be coffee and hugs and a lot of positive visualization of kids growing up and moving out of the house.  Also?  Practice dialogues where the parents rehearse saying NO when the teen asks to go to a coed slumber party or wants to drive 16 friends somewhere in the family minivan.  We'd offer lots of positive reinforcement as the parents practice, so they can feel good about doing what is essentially a thankless task.  There could even be special group sessions, with titles such as the following:

DO NOT be fooled - this kid will drive you mad in 15 years.

 "How To Talk So Your Teen Will Shut Up and Do the Dishes Already"

or

"What To Expect When You're Expecting Your Teen Home by 11 and It's Past Midnight"

or even

"The Magic Years - They're Long Over, So Stop Scrapbooking and Make Sure To Install a 5-Camera Security System on the Exterior of Your House."

And, yes, another friend of mine DID have to resort to that last idea.  Raising teens isn't for wimps, you know.

More Wasted Grant Money

Well!  Here's the latest in our series "Research That Is Not Helpful."  Apparently, someone did a study to determine the usefulness of brassieres.  The conclusion?

According to the results of a 15-year study in France published Wednesday, bras provide no benefits to women and may actually be harmful to breasts over time.

The researchers claim that women who don't wear bras develop more breast tissue that help hold their boobs up.  Of course, I am not too sure they were investigating the right demographic.  Apparently, they only studied women aged 18-35, and the study makes no mention whatsoever of breast size. Here's one 28-year-old woman who participated:

"At first, I was a little reluctant to the idea of running without a bra, but I got started and after five minutes, I had no trouble at all," Vercellotti said, according to the Agence France-Presse.

Of course, you didn't, honey.  Because, first of all, you are 28.  Your boobs are not yet so pendulous that they could give you 2 black eyes if you jog up and down too much.  Also?  I'll bet any amount of money you are a size A. 

I rest my case.

Look, after reading this article, I spent several minutes topless, staring into my bathroom mirror and examining just exactly what muscles and tissue support my breasts. (Hey, I'm unemployed now - I have the time.)  Believe me, if you are a size C or more, there simply isn't anything in place to hold those things up.  Blame it on poor design, if you will.  And haven't these researchers ever seen those National Geographic pictures of old women living in primitive tribes in Africa or South America?  Their boobs are hanging DOWN.  And, believe me, it's not because they were sporting Bali minimizers for the greater part of their lives.


Gravity, folks - it always wins.


[Photo of young Somali mother and babe by Mrs. Charles K. Moser. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons]

Let Them Eat Cake

This was NOT Brian's cake.

I birthed my fourth teenager yesterday.  It wasn't too arduous; it just involved my sitting down and instructing Brian ALL DAY Tuesday on everything I need to tell him before his brain fogs up and he can no longer hear me.  He was admirably good-natured about it.  Because he wasn't quite a teen yet.

So I spent yesterday leafing through old photo albums and showing the little girls pictures of Brian as a baby - oh, and suppressing twinges of guilt as my youngest kept asking, "Where are the pictures of ME?"  Nowhere, honey, because that's what happens when you are the caboose.  You don't get scrapbooked.

I started this blog when Brian was only 6 or 7 -- that is, when I was still young and optimistic and thought that life after babies would be easy.  I guess I wasn't paying attention to that teen thing or noting just how haggard the faces of older parents looked.  Blissfully ignorant, that was me. And, boy, do I want that naive optimism back.  As it is, every morning I wake up and feel a slight panicky feeling in my throat and chest.  "What?"  I think.  "I have to do it again?  Just like yesterday?  And the day before that?" 

I fight that feeling, of course.  I get up, I shower and dress and do my hair, I wave my 2-lb handweights around in an attempt to tone my arms in 7 days (Day 4, so far - I'll keep you posted).  But, deep down, I know I'm screwed.  I've got 2 teens at home and 2 more on the way, and no amount of fitness or sheer perseverance changes the math: I'm losing ground, and they outnumber me. 

I endured a screaming tantrum from Susie just this evening, because she wanted birthday cake but wouldn't eat her dinner.  You know, the first 10 or 15 years I dealt with that sort of thing, it was tiring but worth it.  Worth it, because I believed I had taught a valuable lesson to my child and that I had laid the groundwork for years of obedience and household peace.  But now?  I know it's all a crap shoot.  I know my resoluteness and effort will not necessarily produce any long-lasting positive results, but I still can't give her the damn cake.  How's THAT for dispiriting?

I guess that's why people love being grandparents - they never have to withhold the cake.

Waist Not

So! This weekend was challenging, to say the least.  After navigating (or avoiding, really) a discussion of the facts of life with Susie, I was hanging out at the tot lot with a neighbor, who was watching her son.  Another kid we didn't know had taken a shine to him and asked her, "Are you his mom?"  She told him yes.  Then he turned to me and...

[I just have to take a breath here]

He turned to me and said, "Are you his grandma?"

Are you his grandma?

I let that bounce around in my psyche the entire day.  Over and over, like a looped tape in my mind, I heard, "Are you his grandma?"  I sulked.  I pouted.  I refused to talk to Larry, because he is 4 years younger than I am and no one mistakes him for a grandpa.  And the next day, because I am obviously a glutton for punishment, I went to the mall and tried on clothes for 3 hours.

She's smiling, because she has a waist.

Really, Macy's?  A 3-way mirror?  You shouldn't have.  Because all I saw there was Grandma...Grandma...Grandma....

In other words, it was a severely demoralizing experience, made worse by the fact that -- due to my height deficit -- I must confine myself to the "petites" department.  Do you know what it is like, walking past acres of beautiful clothing for women, knowing that NONE of it is for you, until you finally reach the tiny corner labeled "petites"?  And then half the clothes there are grandma clothes?

Get thee behind me, Worthington and Alfred Dunner, with your full elastic waists and sensible scoop necks -- I will not go gently into that dark night.

I soldiered on, stalwart soul that I am, because I needed a dress or skirt to wear to Theo's graduation.  Mid-calf length, as I CANNOT wear an above-the-knee style.  What with the cellulite, age wrinkles, and varicose veins, it would be a punishing sight.

By the way, what the heck happened to pantyhose?  They used to hide a multiple of ills for people like me.  A pox on all you skinny young ones, with your vein-less legs and your stomachs that don't need control tops.

So, apparently, a mid-calf skirt or dress for a short, well-endowed woman is as attainable right now as a sensible budget deal in Congress.  There were a few sleeveless dresses that might have reached below the knee, but they were too revealing on top (meaning, my marvel-of-engineering total-containment brassiere peeks out).  I finally found something that isn't quite long enough, in a color I don't really like, that I bought out of desperation.

But I still wasn't done, not by a long shot.  I was wearing jeans with holes in them, and all my pants at home were in a similar condition.  So I had to find jeans that fit.  I know!  The holy grail, as it were, of fashion.  Larry doesn't understand, because he can walk into a store, pick out jeans by waist and length (34, 32) and walk out, just as he has done for going on 3 decades now.  He won't believe me when I tell him that women's clothing sizes are not reliable indicators of the actual size of the clothing.  25 years ago, I fit comfortably into a size 8.  But today, when I am at least 15 pounds heavier?  I have to try on numerous styles in size 6 and size 4.  Go figure.

I don't even EAT muffins.

And the trouble doesn't end there.  Once I do find a pair of jeans that fits my hips and legs, I am left with a jeans snap that digs into my overabundant stomach flesh and the resulting unattractive protrusion of a muffin top.  You see, menopause -- having a nasty sense of humor -- has chosen to deposit a solid spare tire of flab right around my midsection, to the extent that you probably can't tell from behind whether I am male or female.

In other words, I am grandma-shaped.  At 50.  Look, I know that I am supposed to end this screed with some affirmations about self-acceptance and inner beauty and the like.  And maybe by tomorrow, as the trauma of my shopping trip fades, I'll want to focus on my 3-mile-a-day walking regimen and my determination to tone my arms in 7 days by following some instructions I found on Pinterest.

But right now?  I just want my waist back.


[3-way mirror: Fill My Cup]
[Muffin top: Aussie Fit]

In Flagrante Delicto

The 3 youngest kids and I pretended it was spring and took a walk to the bagel shop this morning.  I dressed in my FitFlops, a ski jacket, and a scarf.  I cannot take having my feet squished into shoes ONE MORE DAY.  So we were walking along, with myself looking fairly ridiculous, when Susie decided to strike up a conversation with me.

"I saw 2 squirrels on the deck this morning, wrestling like kittens!" she announced.

"Really?" I said. "Well, that's cute."

"Yes, it was really funny!  And then one of the squirrels?  He climbed up on the other one's back, from behind, like he was playing horsey!"

Uh-oh...

"Well," I said, "isn't that something!"

But Susie wasn't done.  "Yes! And the other squirrel?  The one underneath?  He started hopping - up and down!  Up and down!  Up and down!"  Here she stopped to giggle.  "He looked so silly!"

Oh, honey, if you think THAT looks silly...

Rip Van Winkle Syndrome Strikes Again

I think I'm the only blogger who doesn't have any thoughts on Roger Ebert's demise.  In fact, I was shocked a few years ago to hear he was still around.  I had thought Siskel and Ebert was strictly an 80's thing.  It's as if I were in a media blackout the entire time I was having babies (13 years, but who's counting?), and I've never quite caught back up.

Maybe I should just buy this book?

So now it turns out I missed out on knowing (in the Internet sense) a fascinating blogger and memoir-ist. Apparently, even though I thought that I was managing to keep up with things by reading blogs (would you believe, I didn't know who George Clooney was until Mrs. G named him her Secret Boyfriend over at Derfwad Manor?), I seem to have barely scratched the surface.  Maybe you folks should use the comments this weekend to tell me what you think are the most important 2 or 3 things, cultural zeitgeist-wise, I should know about.  Celebrities, writers, social scientists, trends - anything from the last 2 decades that strikes you as being something essential to cultural literacy.  I'm sort of crowd-sourcing my re-education here, if you don't mind. 


Skip the Kardashians, though.  I'm choosing to remain blissfully ignorant of that particular phenomenon.  Also?  I know about smartphones. 
 

Sumo Diapers Are Not Flattering

Here is the  movie my friend and I watched on our movie night this week:

A movie featuring overweight Israelis and sumo wrestling?  A chick flick?  Yes, it is, because it's really about the issues of self-perception and self-worth...AND it's funny.  Also, I'm pretty sure reading the subtitles burned extra calories.

Foolish

I have gone on at length in the past about how much I hate April Fool's Day - no need to revisit that here.  I'm more of a self-deprecating humor sort of gal, with occasional forays into making fun of general social trends.  But is it really just my hypersensitive self who thinks that this joke is out of bounds?  As in, sort of mean?

And, yes, I HATE "Kick Me" Signs

For those of you who, like myself, are too lazy to click, Kiwi Crate posted on its website the purportedly amusing story of the "fun and playful" prank one of their activity designers played on her daughter today.  You see, she handed her little one a foil-covered pan and announced she was giving her an entire pan of brownies.  So the happy child, agog with the anticipation of fudgy chocolate-y goodness, removed the foil and found not baked goods but a pan full of "Brown E's" - the letter E cut out of brown construction paper. 

Gosh, that's just a kneeslapper.  I don't know what's worse - the lame joke or the fact that she thought this lame joke was worth making her child feel sucker-punched.  I can only guess that this person enjoys kicking kittens in her spare time.

And yes, she did give her daughter some brownies afterward.  But, for someone like me, that would have been too late.  Brownies just don't taste that good when they come with a side order of humiliation.