Taking The Vow

Mike and I went to the movies while the kids were home sick during Christmas break.  That's right, we busted loose to go see "Young Adult."  It's a dark comedy full of bitter humor.  I completely identified with it.

But equally as good as the movie was the trailer for an upcoming flick called, "The Vow." In yet another preview that was so long and rich in detail they saved me the inconvenience of seeing the picture, I learned this is a movie I would need to be either outrageously paid or outrageously bombed to watch in the first place.
                                                   
"The Vow" features a young couple who are just about as happy as two clams could be before they're cracked open and splashed with lemon and Tabasco.  Well, in the movie, a truck cracks into the back of their car and the wife goes into a coma.

After witnessing such a devastating and contrived Hollywood scene, I couldn't help but think, "Why did she feel the need to unbuckle her seat belt to kiss him while he was singing a Meatloaf song?"  Like, if you're husband is crooning, "I would do anything for you, but I won't do that," and you unbuckle your belt, I'm thinking you're automatically exiting the vehicle and dialing DIVORCE-R-US.  No?

I pulled myself out of my "What Would Really Happen" stupor in time to see the female lead (Rachel McAdams) address her husband as "Dr. So-and-So."  Ooohh, plot twist.  Because her husband is NOT a doctor.  So that must mean she's got -- dunh, dunh, DUNH -- amnesia!

In this schmaltzy, triple pack of Sweet-N-Low, cheese and barf, the husband (Channing Tatum) decides that this amnesia thing is just a little set back 'cuz he's gonna make his lady fall in love with him all over again.  They'll have a first date all over again.  They'll have their first kiss all over again.  They'll have their whole life ALL OVER AGAIN.  He will once again be the bacon to her eggs, the peanut butter to her mayonnaise, or whatever Elvis ate.

Cut to my New Year's Eve.  My sister and I saw a shortened commercial for "The Vow."   And, because she, too, has a brain, she was as incredulous as I at this insanity.

Anne: "What?!  She gets amnesia and stays with him?? My God, that's the perfect opportunity to change everything!"  

Me: "RIGHT?!?!?!  I was thinking of getting into a fender bender next week!"

Anne: "Really!  Then it would be 'Later for you losers!'  What could anybody do -- we'd have amnesia!"



The New Year's champagne fueled the viability of our plan.

Anne, gesturing to her family: "These guys would go out and inspect the car.  They'd be like, 'What do you mean amnesia? There's barely a scratch on your car!  Did you even hit anything??'"

Me: "We'd just have to be like, 'Look, I don't recognize any of you.  In fact, aren't I supposed to be in Maui right now?  Is this Maui?  Who are those kids?  Why are you bringing me into a house that doesn't appear to be inhabited by George Clooney?  Why are there shoes and laundry everywhere?!'"

As my sister and I were scripting our escapes from the everyday, my brother-in-law just looked at us.  He didn't even crack a smile.  Come to think of it, maybe we shouldn't have brainstormed our master plan right in front of him like that.

Anywho, when you hear of my amnesia attack, you can send letters of condolence to the Ritz-Carlton Kapalua.

Getting the Grease Out

Cleaning up.  Two hateful words.

As in I hate when the house is ready to crawl away from itself and "cleaning up" is the only way to save the situation.  And the kids hate when I lay down the law and involve them in the effort.

I've tried to keep my dislike of it all to myself.  You know, to set a good example for the wee ones.  But somehow, like me, they long ago adopted this same aversion.  Unfortunately, unlike me, they're more than happy to complain long and loud about it.

Cara: "Ryan, stop staring into space and dust already!"

Ryan: "Cara, stop being a security camera looking at me!  What are YOU doing?!"

Cara: "I'M straightening up!"

Ryan: "Yeah, well it's all YOUR crap YOU leave all over the place anyway!"

Cara: "Dirty tissues don't belong to ME!  God!"

Ryan: "Love ya!"

I left out the swearing, personal insults and gender hate that also seems to come naturally to them.

I know it would be somewhat easier to hire a cleaning service.  Trust me, Mike and I had one before kids.  It was great.  We'd straighten up for 10 minutes the day she was due to arrive.  And the house would look pretty much the same until the next time she came.

But once the diapers, wipes, baby toys, baby blankets, Barbies, Tonkas, Fischer-Price, Bratz Dolls, Silly Bandz, Nerf Guns and 40,000 slips of paper from their respective schools came along... it seemed kind of a waste to spend half a day picking up before a cleaning woman came, only to have the place look like somebody detonated a garbage bomb two hours later.

I've tried to get the kids to be more organized.  I've tried to enforce rules like, "Hang up your coat," "Don't leave your shoes in the middle of the floor," "Do put your plates in the dishwasher," "Don't leave a half-eaten ice pop that you stuck in a cup on the coffee table for three hours," "Do use a napkin when you eat frozen blueberries with your hands while watching TV because the carpet actually is NOT a napkin."

Of course, there are many more do's and don'ts that I dish out on an hourly basis, but you all have lives....

What really gets me is when my alleged "friends" on Facebook post that their pre-tweens cleaned all kinds of stuff "without even being asked."  Good.  Open a kid cleaning school.  I'll enroll my two tomorrow.

Before anybody starts sending me ideas on how to get my kids to happily, or unhappily for all I care, pitch in, I've tried it all.

--Praise.   I've used this when they've helped without my asking.  Such as, "It's so great when you clean your dirty tissues off the dining room table.  It's helpful things like that that make me happy and less revolted as I go about my day."

--Chore money.  I've paid up.  Ohhhh, I've paid.  Dearly.  But even when I've paid the money, the kids eventually decide no amount of money is worth doing chores, even though they're risking a total wigging out rant.  (See next item).

--Rants.  These aren't fun for anyone.  Particularly my neighbors.  These tirades can last anywhere from two minutes to two angry hours, depending on my energy level and the amount of back talking and ratting out Cara and Ryan pile on.

--Chore sheets.  My sister successfully wrote one of these up for her kids.  My therapist seconded the idea.  So,  I wrote one up with Daily, Weekly and "Whenever I Ask" chores plotted out for each kid. I showed them.  I explained the importance of it.  I posted it inside a kitchen cabinet regularly visited by everyone.   One month later:

Cara, sitting across the kitchen from said cabinet: "What's that white sheet of paper taped inside that cabinet?"

Me: "Really?  It's the CHORE CHART you're supposed to be following."

Cara: "Ohhhh....  huh..."  ...She then retreated from conversation while sitting right in front of me.

So now, it comes down to bribing situations.  But we're from Jersey, so it doesn't even really feel like a bribe. It feels like what's right.  Things like, "Sure you can have friends over" or "Sure, I'll take you to the mall," or "Yeah, I'll bring you to Game Stop" BUT "You have to help with cleaning up around here."

Of course, the kids react like duly indignant Hudson County politicians.  But like those back room heroes, they inevitably realize that in order to get their way, they have to grease the palm, or clean the kitchen.  Whichever.

Everybody has their bitter pill to swallow.