Tag Archives: cell phone

Mother’s Day “Cell” Story

4 May

The voice at the end of my cell phone says:

“Happy F-#@!-ing Mother’s Day To You!”   WHAT ????

Barb's Blast

How dare you!

Let me explain!   At the break of dawn on Mother’s Day last year…

(Isn’t Sunday morning still sacred for church, sleep, wild sex or Grandma’s Gingerbread Pancakes?)

My not so smart phone BLARES…

to the jarring, heart skipping gyrations of Lady Gaga (admittedly my dubious choice),

wikimedia commons

Wake Up, sleepyhead!

Eager (okay, desperate) to have a loving Mother’s Day greeting from my sweet daughter at college (who is in a time zone three hours ahead and is hopefully coming out of her nightly coma around this time)

or one of my many lovely nieces (whose birthdays and special days I never forget)

or Federal Express informing me that an extravagant gourmet food & vintage wine basket delivery is speedily on its way to my doorstep,

I gladly jump the phone.

BUT instead of heartfelt greetings rewarding a lifetime of devotion, service and sacrifice,

(Violins, please!)  

I hear a pregnant (PUN ALERT) pause and a chilling automated male voice:

“This is the L.A. County Jail Tele-system.

A prisoner inside the L.A. County Prison System is calling you.

To accept this call, press one…”

ARRRGGH!  I shut the phone off, fling it across the room (sorry pooch) then bathe it in a bucket of Purell hand sanitizer.  YUCK!

BLASPHEMY!  SACRILEGE!  It’s Mother’s Day for heaven’s sake!

Mother’s Day is a sacred day reserved for daisy bouquets and family brunches and soothing back rubs and sticky kisses – NOT creepy, crazy obscene phone calls from serial killers and sociopaths in solitary confinement.

Whew!  Close call!


Happy Mother's Day

As my mother would say (and hers and hers and hers…)

“What is the world coming to?”

I know the answer: It’s coming to our cell phones!

Listen to your mother!

Top Mom: Flight Log of a Helicopter Parent

1 Nov

6:00 a.m.     Strength train for endurance.  Focus on flabby upper body muscles.  Remind self that helicopter parenting is an ultra marathon, not a cakewalk for wimps.

6:30 a.m.     Fuel up at Starbuck’s on a tall quadruple Espresso Roast, Komodo Dragon Blend – no milk, no sugar, no cup.


7:00 a.m.     Drill preadolescent kids with calculus and chemistry flashcards over Omega-3 rich, low-fructose breakfasts. Remind them: “Bone up, those AP courses are right around the corner.”

7:30 a.m.     Drop off sweet, attention-challenged male child and intense, snarky female child at middle school with detailed instructions for the entire day.

8:00 a.m.     Check female child’s “MySpace” page. Enter grandiose compliments anonymously to improve her body image and boost core self-esteem.

8:30 a.m.     Install filter on male child’s laptop so those “naughty thong girls acting wild and wet” web sites don’t inexplicably pop up again on his favorites list.

9:01 a.m.     Answer call from whining school principal upset with male child’s “inappropriate” lunchtime behavior. Listen politely, threaten multiple lawsuits and 911 calls to the ACLU and Huff Post. (Make note to confiscate said child’s pocket video camera.)

Smile honey!

9:30 a.m.     Crank up on personal stash of putrid herbal energy supplements since hovering requires continuous, active corrections from the pilot.

Wow! Better than a Polaroid!

10:00 a.m.    Call male child’s cell phone.  Leave firm message that “trying to appreciate the female gender” does not include filming the morbidly obese school librarian straining in the teachers’ lounge, then posting it on “You Tube.”

Golf is in your future

Geez, what will Harvard think?

10:30 a.m.    Drop by schoolyard at snack time and nudge female child, thus aggravating both your eating disorders.  “Are you relishing your vegetables?

Repeat the mantra: “Remember, broccoli is brain food… and it’s slimming, too.”

11:00 a.m.    At biweekly appointment, ask therapist to define “hover.” Deny lack of stability ‘til the friggin’ malevolent methane emitting cows come home.

Fuel Up!

12:00 noon    Fuel up on iced mocha double double espresso Frappucino Gazebo Blend with cumin sprinkles and whipped cream. Top off with a scrumptious giant cherry apricot scone for extra lift.

12:30 p.m.    Incessant helicopter din and teeth-rattling vibration grating on already rattled nerves.

Get lube job (and mani-pedi) at tacky day spa.  Have mechanic sharpen motor blades and check torque tension.

1:55 p.m.      Ignore slacker husband’s remark, “Why do you think they call it HELLicopter?”

2:00 p.m.     Do research for female child’s science project on “Hummingbirds and the Physics of Flight.”  You gotta earn those A’s!  (They don’t grow on trees – especially on our family tree!)


2:45 p.m.     Call female child’s English teacher and berate her for that “B” on the Macbeth essay last week.

2:55 p.m.     Call male child on cell phone and insist he text message his score on the afternoon’s spelling test now. Excellence waits for no one.

3:00 p.m.     Call therapist. Demand she clarify “too involved.” Disagree vehemently and vow innocence ‘til Iceland melts off the geothermal map.

credit telegraph.co.uk

3:15 p.m.     Detect ominous downward spiral at accelerating speed. Panic creeps in.

3:16 p.m.     Reflect upon therapist’s comment, “Helicopters are very unstable; hovering is like balancing yourself while standing on a large beach ball.”

3:17 p.m.     Chopper pitches and rolls like a drunken windmill.  “Holy F#@*!!!”

3:18 p.m.     Tear up parent card and toss pilot wings in the trash.

3:19 p.m.     Prepare for a crash landing as fuel abruptly runs out.  View is totally obscured by stress-induced, adrenaline juiced brain fog.

Hello Kitty Parachute IPhone APP

3:20 p.m.     Collapse at cyclic switch, kiss your asinine aspirations “adieu” as your chopper shakes to a million bits in mid-air.

3:21 p.m.     Plummet to a sure death of regret and many broken bones — but then land miraculously… in an empty nest.

3:33p.m.     Vegetate there while deviant male child and dour female child learn to fly on their own two feet – and perhaps some day in the very distant future – elect to conduct a Search and Rescue Mission for you – their “Top Mom.”

Get Stuck On Smart

%d bloggers like this: