First Generation

I was going to write a post about what my daughter calls my "First World Problems."

You know, like when I remote-start my car, I think the car should automatically sense that it needs to go into defrost mode because the temperature dropped 30 degrees overnight and now the windshield is frozen and the air conditioning mode it was left in actually is not needed, thank you.

My thinking is, if I'm going to the trouble of remembering to start my car while standing at the front door in my pajamas, I shouldn't have to drive down the street wasting windshield washer fluid in a desperate attempt to melt the frost off the glass before the cops see me because Cara's late and I didn't realize that was frost on the window, not just morning dew, until I was backing down the driveway.  You know?  The car should sense all of that.

To be honest, on the days when that happens, Cara hasn't broken out the snarky "First World Problems" expression.  Probably because of "self-interest" and the fact that a "poorly placed" snarky remark could land her "walking to school" (her First World Problem) or worse, landing a long-winded lecture on the way there about early morning snarkiness.

But Cara often uses that phrase when what she really means is, "Hmmm, yeah... can we change the subject?"

Like, let's say we're at the mall.  And let's say she's off having fun with a friend at one end of the mall.  While I'm, let's say, at the opposite end of the mall.  With Ryan.  Trying to find jeans that pass the school code of "no tears or holes" even if they're put there by the manufacturer and he's arguing through the dressing room door that they're not dark enough, or he doesn't like the greenish hue that's on the blue jean but he likes it on the black jean so can't I just find a black pair that has the green stuff with no holes??

Let's just say that's the scenario.

Then, a text from Cara comes floating in.

Cara's text: "Hey, where are you guys?"

My text: "Where you left us."

Cara's text: "STILL?????  My God, what's taking so long?!"

My text: "Don't ask."

Cara's text: "Well, I want to shop with you, too."

Translation: She's probably running low on money.

This is when my "First World Problem" kicks in.  Because I can't type what I want fast enough on the iPhone without it changing "you" into "Yiu." And "trade with me?!?" into "read ewith me?!?." And "party in here?!?" into "pert inherent?!?"

So I'm trying to fix the auto-"corrected" mistakes, and meanwhile Cara's texts are raining down onto my screen.

Cara's text: "Hello?"

Cara's text: "Are you getting my texts??  Whatever.  What's his problem?  He's a boy!  Why would buying jeans take so long?"

Cara's text: "Anyway, I saw a really cute sweater.  And I want you to see it.  Christmas, hint, hint."

Cara's text: "Plus, he's been with you for an hour, and I wanted to shop with you."

Translation: She's eyeing way more than the "Christmas gift" sweater.

Meanwhile, Ryan's sticking his head out of the changing room door.

Ryan: "Did you ask the guy if they have those black jeans with the greenish but no holes yet?!"

Me: "Cara's texting me.  Hold on.  I'm trying to type back to her."

Ryan: "Oh, God.  Here we go."

Me: "Give me a second. Please!"

Ryan: "I'm IN my underwear.  Who cares about Cara right now?  What does she want -- more money to go to Aerie?  Or to buy tea?!?"

And this is when -- in the olden days -- a parent would just go to a bar and regroup.

But instead, I press "send" and tell Ryan he can put the pants he owns back on and leave the dressing room.  That he is not, in fact, being held hostage in there.

Ryan: "This is bull.  You care more about her.  I'm IN MY UNDERWEAR!"

On cue, Cara's texting again.

Cara's text: "What?? Do I want to read with you?  What's a pert inherent??"

You know, she didn't even ask if I was having a stroke, or my long-held, self-prediction of an aneurysm brought on by high levels of aggravation colliding with the current American custom of trying to appear "not deranged" when in public with your own children.

And THAT'S when it would be easier to just CALL my daughter.  Except cell service is so spotty at the mall, half the time the calls don't even go through or the conversation sounds something like:

Me: "Hi, Cara.  Where are you?  Are you almost ready to go?"

Cara: "Umm, y... I jus.... w... then... st... ...ale... new shoes."

When we finally get back together again, I let her know how annoying I find her text bombardments.  And that it's made even more annoying because of the iPhone's idiotic auto-corrections when I try to write back to her.  And  why is it nearly impossible to make a cell call on the lower level of the mall?

Cara, with a big sigh: "First World problems.  Can we go down to Aerie?  ...And Teavana?"

Rock Me Like A...Oh, Never Mind

                                            

You know, when a hurricane hits your neck of the woods, the potential for inconvenience can really become heightened.  Especially if you're one of those people who relies on things like electricity, gas, a food supply, mass transit, an operating school system....  Otherwise, who cares, right?

Something about having the kids home for 11 straight days -- seven of which they were supposed to be in school -- can throw a monkey wrench into the system.  And considering our "system" is held together with duct tape and fishing line...

But there were a few things I learned from the Hurricane Sandy period:

1) --Do not, under any circumstances, keep baking supplies in the home, lest your power returns and your teenage daughter decides to alleviate college application anxiety mixed with "time on her hands" by baking 50 dozen chocolate chip cookies.

2) --If you find you have 50 dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies on your hands and it's midnight, the local cops working the overnight shift will take some off your hands.

3) --Cheeze-It crackers really ARE better than Cheese Nips.

4) --Popchips are FAR BETTER than the lookalikes, as are Pretzel Crisps.  So don't waste your time and money on anything else if you're inviting me over, thank you.

Risking you thinking all my lessons learned during the hurricane had to do with food -- a.k.a. the mass quantities of empty calories that were consumed when I instinctively went into "hurricane survival mode" and Cheez-Its seem like a strong choice under duress -- you're wrong.

I also learned that granola is an annoying health food, if only because its makers have decided schlumpy plastic bags beat cardboard in the packaging wars.  And like many inanimate objects in our house that seem to be breeding -- nail polish, hair bands and dirty socks among them -- the bags of granola have started their own colony.

Mind you, I do not buy all this granola of my own free will.  Cara comes to the store to "help" me and throws it in the cart when I'm clearly distracted -- like when I'm choosing a sympathy card or rifling through the toothbrush department.  Recently, I told her I'm declaring a housewide moratorium on granola.  So now she's missing out on a seasonal cinnamon pumpkin variety, which has garnered me the "Meanest Mom Ever" title for the 78th week in a row.

But, seriously, these idiotic bags are making me crazy.  Fine -- crazier.  These bags are the new "thing" food brands are adopting.  I haven't read a study on "why" so many food products are coming in bags these days, but I blame the biologists.  Lately, they're all, "Plants have feelings and lead rich lives." So now we can't cut trees to make a box, or even recycle the box because it's feelings have already been through the ringer so how much more can it possibly take?  I watched a video of a big tree getting cut down, and all the little trees started screaming for their mama.  It was pure propaganda on the part of the trees.

Truth be told, I know the packaging thing is all about money.  As in: what looks like it just came from "the market" in a ____ (fill in the blank) hipster/quaint/olde worlde place of interest?  Food in a box with bold, primary colors?  Or food in an adorable bag featuring homey pictures, charming lettering and a price tag that cold-cocks you right there in Aisle 11?

So now we have rice that comes in bags.  Pasta that comes in bags.  Dried fruit, coffee, croutons, crackers, even SOUP comes in bags.


You might say, "Well, Miss Who Doesn't Care About the Earth, using bags means less cardboard."  To which I reply, "Don't call me 'Miss.' It's sexist.  But don't call me ma'am, either. That's ageist."

Where was I?  Oh, right: the disaster area in my pantry closet.

So, it used to be I could pretend there was some semblance of order by stacking the food boxes.  Or simply putting the taller boxes in front of everything else if someone was coming over and I wanted to look all "not slobby."

Now, the jig's up.

Before you ask, "Hey, why don't you just put it all in food storage containers and stack them?" you need to know I just don't do that.  Mostly because I can't find the matching lids.

When the hurricane struck, Cara and Ryan had more free time at home than they'd seen since their pre-K days.  Hell, there was no school or homework, the town put curfews in place, a gas crisis kept everyone from driving, crashing tree limbs and live electrical wires terrorized people into staying indoors.  Of COURSE the kitchen became a crisis center.  And that pantry closet became a bag-ridden mess.  

Now, something's gotta give.  I mean, how long can I blame "the hurricane" for making my pantry look like a tornado hit it?