Tag Archives: kids

I’ve waited 27 days to write this

27 Aug

Today I felt inspired to do this:

Karma's a bitch.

You might be thinking “What, I did not subscribe to a crafting blog. What the eff is this?”

Don’t worry, this is NOT a crafting blog, nor will it ever be. So let me explain. Bit of background info: I am renting a bedroom in a sketchy, messy 3 bedroom house that’s occupied by a family. Why? I moved to Colorado and needed to lock down a random sublet so that I’d have a place to live while going on job interviews and just trying to make my way out here. I found this place on Craigslist, was stressed out and sick of searching for apartments and jobs, and mailed them a check, sight unseen.

I knew it wasn’t going to be ideal, but I didn’t know it would be like this.

Laundry room:

gross laundry room

I think they took the concept of a “laundry room” literally, because there are clothes EVERYWHERE. I’m assuming they’re still like that, because I haven’t been down there since my first time doing laundry. I’d be okay with wading through other people’s dirty clothes, but it also smells like cat pee and, on top of that, a few days ago there was a sewage leak. Once a personal preference, now a safety hazard. I’m out of clean underwear.

Living room: 

messy living room

Mostly uninhabitable, 2 points for irony! The one time I sat on the couch was the last time I sat on the couch, frankly because I’m afraid of whatever is lurking in the cushions that’s feeding off Cheetos from 2008.

Parents:

I met the mother, Buffy, when she was talking on a Nokia cell phone as she walked through the front door. She hung up and told her husband:

“We can’t use this cell phone, they can track it. We need to get another cell phone.”

Then she turned to me and explained that Hunter’s father was trying to find out where his son was because they just got custody of him (red flag #1). Then she introduced herself to me. Best first impression ever!

(Later, the mother told me that she’s a germaphobe. Several times, actually. Please refer to the previous pictures of the house, and let me know if you find this amusing too.)

Kids:

neenu

This is the 2 year-old girl who follows me around everywhere. She’s cute but she often stinks because her parents don’t bother changing her diaper or her clothes.

red head

This picture represents the 6 year-old BONUS child named Hunter. I don’t have a picture of him because I don’t like him, so this picture of a redhead should suffice. I say “bonus” child because the day I moved in, the father sat me down in the foyer (nearly gave me a heart attack — who “sits” their tenants down upon arrival?) and told me that, surprise, Hunter would be living with the family. I was informed that Hunter is the wife’s child from an abusive relationship that she “just got out of.” ..Red flag #2.

“The Wall”

Every wall in the living room is known as “The Wall,” which is a more spacious form of “The Corner.” As in “Hunter!??? GET ON THE WALL!” Said child stomps over to The Wall, faces it, and the parents continue watching TV. Child turns and watches the TV. Child stands there for 45 minutes, because he spoke while on The Wall and thus extended his initial “minute” on the wall by 44 minutes. Actually, even a well-behaved “minute” can last 20 minutes — I’ve seen it a couple times.

This is not a recommended form of parenting.

Sooooooo how does the Karma’s a Bitch mason jar fit into all this?

Well, for the past four or five days, the family’s been gone.

“I found out that they’re not coming back,” said the shirtless/hairy man that also rents a room in the house (another surprise). He was on his way to the bathroom holding a shower caddy. One perk of living with creepy older men is that you get to see them on their way to shower or use the bathroom, and then get visualizations of things to come. Ugh.

“What? Wait.. what? I thought they owned the house?” I was surprised, but also kind of amused at the same time. Nothing really shocked me at this point in the game.

“No, I guess they rent it.” Aha.. Renters were renting to renters. Quite clever of them. “Yea, Buffy’s sister came by earlier this morning when you were gone, and she said that they weren’t coming back, and she asked me if I wanted to keep the cats.”

The Cats:

love this cat

this cat's kinda nice

I wasn’t too surprised that they had skipped out on their own rent, left the place a complete mess, and left most of their belongings, but I was surprised that they were completely fine with abandoning two cats to basically die of starvation. Cool.

On one hand, their leaving might be an upgrade because the cats were neglected in the first place. My second week here, I noticed that their water bowl was empty and I filled it up. The black little guy ran right over and drank like he just stumbled across an Oasis on the Oregon Trail. I’ve been feeding them ever since. The family also has a puppy, who they apparently decided was worthy of bringing along. He spent most of his time on a chain in the dirt backyard or locked in the shed overnight.

I know this is a humor blog, and I was trying to keep a good sense of humor in a situation that I couldn’t control, but stuff like this just makes me hate humanity. Sure, there are some decent people out there, but there are way more pieces of sh*t who are completely irresponsible and assume that their actions don’t have consequences. Or worse, they know exactly what they’re doing but they don’t care. I feel like the past couple of years I keep meeting more of these people.

So.. telling myself “karma is a bitch” is sometimes the only thing that settles me down. I don’t believe in any god so I’m not capable of thinking that someday they’ll meet their maker in a firey pit of misery. I guess I believe that “you get what you give” and “what goes around comes around.” Actions have reactions. When you feed your 2 year old a steady diet of soda, chips, fried chicken, and pizza, she’s probably going to resent you when she hits 13 and gets picked on for being overweight. She’ll hate you even more when she realizes there’s no money for college because you skipped out on your rent 800 times. And in some mysterious way, when she runs away at 17, that’s karma coming back at you for when you decided to abandon two cats and leave them to starve and die. Karma’s a bitch.

The worst parts of my childhood.

21 Aug
i hate soccer

Needless to say, we all quit soccer.

When I got in trouble for mooning someone at a rest stop. Picture this. You’re seven. You’re sitting in a station wagon, at a rest stop, in the middle of June with your two older sisters and one older brother who’s probably sexually active at this point, and thus far too old to be going on seventeen-hour road trips to Disney World.

Our parents just went into the rest stop probably to buy a map, or maybe my Dad was smoking one of his Merit’s, who knows. My Mom was probably perusing the casino brochures outside of McDonald’s. Anyway, they were in there for like 5 whole minutes. That’s a really long time to leave four kids alone in a station wagon in the middle of summer, especially since we’d all finished listening to every NKOTB tape on our Walkman’s.

So my brother dared me to moon the guy next to us. I pulled down my elastic-waist shorts and planted my hauntingly white 7 year-old ass, complete with a birthmark, against the window for a good 2 seconds. I remember exactly what the guy looked like, he had a curly mullet and a wife; they were driving a sensible car, probably a Volvo. It was AWESOME!

But the bastard waited for my parents to get back to the car, and he told on me. And I got in trouble. Shame. Seriously, what would you have done in that situation? It was a dare. I had a moral obligation to do it, and plus, it was fun. I don’t regret it, only that I got caught. Let it be known — if a child ever moons you at a rest stop, PLEASE don’t tell on him. Just let him/her enjoy that blissful 2 seconds of uninhibited taunting.

slush puppieThe last 1/4 of the Slush Puppie. Being the youngest, cutest of my three older sisters and brother, I may or may not have been the most convincing of the group to get all of us something that we collectively wanted real bad. And being a bunch of sweaty kids in a giant, old station wagon  in the summertime, stopping at a gas station meant one thing and one thing only: Slush Puppies.

One way or another, we scored them. We’d suck them down, ignoring the splitting sensation erupting behind our eye sockets, savoring the smooth, round ice pellets swimming in blissful, sweet, blue chemical liquid, letting it slide down our throats into our high fructose corn syrup -heaving bellies. We’d slurp and — so abruptly, without warning — nothing. Cruel, really. We’d tear the plastic top off the cup and peer inside. ALL ICE. NO MORE BLUE. WTF, Slush Puppie? You’ve been around like 47 years, and you still haven’t figured out a way to make the blue shit last through the end of the cup.

krissy and me

Krissy (left) eventually forgave me for hitting her with a bat. Judging by my face I’m still a little guilty.

When I hit my best friend with a bat and got in trouble for it. I grew up as a self-proclaimed, and universally described, “tomboy.” I had a blond bowl-cut and sometimes pretended to be a boy named “Tommy” – more on that later. Years later, my mom told me she raised me as a tomboy because it was cheaper than buying lots of pretty clothes.

When I was about 6 years old, I was playing in the street with my two best friends, Krissy Grossimon and Michael Salvaggio. We were way into T-ball at that time. So I was carrying around one of those foam red bats with my last name written in angry magic marker on it in huge letters, “McCORMICK.” I was also “scooting” around on a skateboard, because I was 6 and I didn’t care if people thought I looked like an idiot.

We were in the middle of the street, in an intersection, which probably wasn’t very safe. Anyway, Krissy said something I didn’t like, and I nailed her with the bat. It wasn’t really that hard, I don’t think, and let me remind you that the bat was covered in foam. Needless to say, I hit a 6 year old with a bat and I thought it was funny. She cried. And told on me, and I got in trouble with my Mom. And realized you shouldn’t hit your best friends with bats, because it’s not funny. Or, it’s not funny to the other person.

When my grandmother convinced my parents that “Chores” were a good idea. My grandmother, Nan, babysat us one snowy weekend when I was 7. (Apparently all the worst parts of my childhood happened around age 7… I’ll bring that up to my therapist later.) All of us kids were playing outside in the snow, and my brother and sisters decided to climb on top of our pop-up camper. Come on, how is that NOT fun? I remember standing there and thinking it was bad but not really caring too much about it.

Later that night, my parents came home and  my Dad found out there was a dent in the roof, due to us kids climbing on it. He was furious. I got in trouble because “You didn’t say anything, so you’re in trouble too” or something to that effect. Apologies that my sense of judgment wasn’t fully formed at the age of 7, Dad. Geez.

nan

What are those, Nan, Christmas cookies laced with poison? Just kidding, love you!

That night, we ate dinner with my grandmother at our big, oval dinner table.

“These kids are getting away with MURDAH,” said Nan. That changed everything.

I’ll never forget the way she said that, because I remember feeling extremely guilty for whatever my 7 year-old self had done that could be equated with slitting someone’s throat and throwing them down a well. I also remember these exact words because my family didn’t really have a heavy Boston accent like she did — well we did, but I think most of us grew out of it once we realized that it’s generally unattractive.

Nan left that night, and the next week my Mom posted a schedule of weekly chores on the wall, which would forever be resented. For years, YEARS I tell you, we would all stay inside after dinner sweeping floors, scrubbing chairs, vacuuming the rug under the dinner table, doing SLAVE labor while our friends would play Four Square outside without us. Even when my friends came over, they’d have to wait in the living room and watch TV while I toiled away. It was torture, I tell you. All because of a visit from my grandmother.

So there you have it, the four worst parts of my childhood.

mccormick family

My Mom requested that I not upload this family picture because of her 80s perm. Challenge accepted.

Baby Beards – The Solution to Juvenile Contentment

16 Apr

happy child

Does this look like the face of a child in your life? 

If your answer is yes, you’re only 1 of thousands of adults suffering from the noxious effects of juvenile contentment.

When children are happy, they radiate positive energy that can be detrimental, even fatal, to nearby parents, neighbors, teachers, and others. Childhood happiness can distract adults from tasks such as:

  • Paying bills
  • Writing out detailed grocery lists
  • Maintaining a furrowed brow
  • Complaining about the price of oil
  • Enforcing punishment such as groundings or no-TV
Thankfully, there is a solution to this problem that will literally wipe the smile off any child’s face. Introducing, the Baby Beard™
baby-beard
The Baby Beard™ is designed to mask and cover up the annoying aesthetic effects of juvenile contentment on a child. That is to say, it virtually erases all
  • Smiles
  • Grins
  • Satisfaction with the moment
and as a bonus, will even
  • conceal underdeveloped teeth and unsightly braces
baby beards
How does the Baby Beard™ work?

The Baby Beard™ is constructed of crocheted yarn, and attaches to the face via loops for the child’s ears, or buttons which can be simply connected to an accompanying crocheted hat, as seen in the photo above. In recent research, the Baby Beard has been effective in both concealing the smiles, grins, and other outward signs of happiness. It has even had the effect of levelling a child’s jubilant mood to a more acceptable mood of sourness or mere neutrality. The Baby Beard is also a great natural solution for adults who dislike children, as it transforms an otherwise youthful face into the face of  a man aged 52.
Thanks for reading about my newest sponsor, and don’t forget to visit the Official Baby Beard store, where you can also find Beards 4 Babes, and Hipster Hair! Stay tuned for an upcoming installment about my other newest sponsor, Bump-It: The ORIGINAL Hair-Volumizing Insert.
Brought to you by Samantha McCormick.

This blog is sponsored by Bump-It, the ORIGINAL hair-volumizing insert, and the Baby Beard™

The Budding Career of a Professional Greeting Card Writer

15 Jul

My parents are trying to sell our house. I know this because A) I found The Idiot’s Guide to Buying and Selling a Home in our living room and B) turning up all over the house are things from the past — things that have spent years gathering dust in corners and closets underneath stacks of old National Geographic magazines. This means that they must have already read Chapter 8: How to Get Rid of all the S–t You Accumulated over the Past Twenty Years. I was looking for a stamp today when I came across a ziplock bag filled with a snapshot of my childhood. Here’s what I found.

Rejected Hallmark Applicant: The Complete Works

All signed by me.

Which led me to the shocking conclusion… As a kid, I wanted to be a professional greeting card writer. For some reason I repressed this memory — I remember always wanting to be A Writer as a kid. Which is, still, far less cool than wanting to be, oh a firefighter or professional soccer player, you know, something unattainable for the average person but at least it sounded cool during recess. On second thought, maybe I repressed the memory after everyone laughed at me during recess.

Anyway, here’s your chance to be floored by the budding career of an aspiring professional greeting card writer.

slumber party

get well soon

Get well soon — Feel free to wipe your germ-infested boogers on this card

hallmark applicant 2

Congradulations on your recent marriage!! Your ex-wives from your last three marriages sent these razor-edged pinwheels in honor of your newest matrimony

[Inside]:

awkward family

Wishing you all the happiness that life has to offer to two people with a bastard blonde child; why do you think we picked out a card with a bride in a yellow wedding dress? That dirty whore you’re marrying obviously isn’t fit for a white one and you’re too busy giving mustache rides to Wendy’s employees to know the difference

fun

[Inside]:

Nope, I’ve had funner

And two postcards:
postcards

Hello! from Hallucinating Rainbow Island, Tennessee and Bad Acid Trip Shards of Glass Raining from the Chicken Pox Clouds, Minnesota

The Science of Cuteness: Part Two

11 May

Welcome to the second installment of The Science of Cuteness: Baby Edition, soon to be a major motion picture starring Justin Bieber. If you’re new here, thanks for stopping by — I think the last time I got 70 comments on something was when I gave myself a boy haircut in the wee hours of a Saturday night. That being said, behold — the remaining laws of The Science of Cuteness.

The Science of Cuteness: Laws ONE-SIX

awkward toy

4 1/2 inches long for your playing pleasure.

SEVEN. Babies make cankles look good. Their legs are like those squishy tube water balloon things which years later you realized might have been a rejected sex toy prototype. We probably shouldn’t, but we poke and squeeze and tickle the crap out of that baby fat. Secretly, we probably envy them for fearlessly parading around their enormous milk-bloated tummies at the beach in a pink polka-dotted bikini. Without getting the stink eye.

EIGHT. Reactions to the sound of their own oral gas expulsion or flatulence. There are few things more hilarious than the look on a baby’s face after he rips a blanket bomb. (Yes, I did have to consult the Fart Thesaurus for that one). And remember, babies are the only ones who can get away with unleashing a trouser cough during that pivotal Church moment when Father Greg is breaking Christ in half. Remember that next time you “innocently” crop dust some poor innocent soul while muscling your way through the $5 DVD bin at Walmart, aight?


NINE. Attachment to inanimate objects. Linus and his blanket. Tommy Pickles and his screwdriver. My nephew and “his” kitty stuffed animal, which he totally stole from me, and I’m still pissed about. Bedtime just DOESN’T HAPPEN without their favorite little toy. There is a negative correlation between level of cuteness and age of the child. Exhibit A: 1 year-old clinging mercilessly to his Bankie. Subject achieves a cute coefficient of 10. Exhibit B: A 40 year old clinging mercilessly to his Bankie — cute coefficient of 1.

TEN. Tiny clothes. I’m not talking about the vomit-inducing (mine, not Jack-Jack’s) onesies that say “iPood,” but rather the miniature adult outfits such as the three-piece suit (which should work nicely at his job interview next week?) or my personal favorite, this little number

Asian baby

which pretty much guarantees the little guy’s future position as “Catcher” during kickball because he’s too fat to run from years of gorging himself on Twinkies after the kids at school made fun of his clothes. ‘Poop and pee’ must have been the color combination that Mom was shooting for when she knit 25 of these for Etsy. Poor kid. But I digress. Fact is, the U.S. baby apparel industry is estimated at $45.4 Billion dollars as of 2009 (see Yahoo Finance to support the fact that I made that number up) and growing. Women just love to buy mini-clothes with mini-buttons, mini-zippers, mini-pockets, mini-hoods… I think it’s safe to say that half the fun of having a baby is buying baby clothes.

ELEVEN. Belly buttons. At the risk of being accused of posting juvenile belly button porn:

Cute baby belly buttons

TWELVE. They’re self-esteem machines. I can pretty much guarantee that even the C.E.O. of the Taliban has made a baby laugh at least once in his life. Due to embarrassingly bad cognitive skills (the baby’s not the terrorists’s), a baby will laugh at anything as long as it sounds musical and involves a peek-a-boo. Theoretically, you could even read Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders as a bedtime story if you follow these techniques. However I would advise against this particular book as it could either cause your child to form a quasi-commune for aspiring murderers at KinderCare or cultivate an unhealthy adolescent obsession with The Beatles while other kids are listening to a mutated hybrid of late-90s Cher singles and Lady Gaga; two outcomes that are equally harmful.

And there you have it, the twelve laws of The Science of Cuteness. If you’ve made it to the end, thanks for reading! Figures that I’d get Freshly Pressed the week before I leave the country for a solo backpacking trip through Europe. In between dodging projectile lava from the Eyjwtfffffffff volcano and putting the finishing touches on my plan to shanghai Jake Gyllenhall at the Cannes Film Festival, I’ll be blogging. Topics may include: dirty hostel haiku, inappropriate photologues of whoever pisses me off at the hostels, and pictures of doodles I draw on napkins while on the train.

The Science of Cuteness

10 May

I’ve been doing a lot of serious thinking lately about why babies are cute. It all started with this poor excuse for a stock image that I found randomly the other day.

cringe

Yea. I don’t know what happened here. I think maybe the cute baby had a cold so they had to use the unphotogenic stand-in baby or something. Or maybe the photographer was his Dad or something, you know, in that ‘I really don’t understand how Tori Spelling is an actress oh wait her Dad is famous’ kinda way. And this photo ignited my synapses into an explosion of activity, leading to the creation of a manifesto of sorts.

The Science of Cuteness: Baby Edition, Copyright May 2010, Samantha McCormick. All Rights Reserved.

Puppies, kittens, blind little inchworms patting their heads around on your skin to find who knows what. Fuckin cute, right? But when it comes to babies, it’s not so simple. Take that baby in Trainspotting. Drug-induced hallucination of a swivel-headed dead baby crawling on the ceiling aside, that baby was just plain ugly. Personally, I think it would have been more effective in the creepy department if it was a cute baby such as either Zach or Cody pre- The Suite Life. Anyway. There is a science behind the reason we find certain babies cute, and certain babies, shall we say,’Walmart catalog material.’ Behold, the laws of cuteness.

ONE. Everything is disproportionately small on a baby. (I totally just made you think of his weewee.) Take his little feet, for example. Small enough to fit in that shiny little Christening shoe, or that miniature white Nike, if your child is of the ghetto nature. Then consider his head. HUGE. If you take the size of his little foot and compare it to the size of his head, that’s like a ratio of 1 to 10. Now consider the size of YOUR foot, in relation to YOUR head. Unless you’re kind of ugly or have awkwardly small feet, that’s probably a ratio of 1 to 4. So disproportionately small equals cute (in regards to a baby, nothing else..) Because if babies didn’t have disproportionately small features, they’d be shrunken versions of adults, like this:

Which is definitely NOT CUTE.

TWO. Button noses. At the baby stage, I guess genetics aren’t even factored into the equation yet because I’ve never seen a baby with a huge nose. Not once. Barbra Streisand, Tori Spelling, and Ashlee Simpson were all cute babies, and that’s a fact.

THREE. Baby babble. Cute little nonsense sounds strung together with drool and that little spit bubble that she’ll later amuse herself with during Times Tables drills. Imagine for a moment that babies could speak perfect English. Childbirth is over, the nurse hands you your little bundle of joy, and — “Hey Mom.” Yes, for some reason it’s easy to wrap our minds around the fact that five minutes ago that little thing in blankets was chillin inside a uterus full of amniotic fluid, because it’s like he really doesn’t know any better since his brain is basically mush, evident by the fact that he can’t talk yet. So when you imagine a baby carrying on a full adult conversation, things get a little tricky.

FOUR. The downy little hairs on his head that you just can’t resist petting. Only acceptable on a baby’s head, and only acceptable to pet when on a baby’s head. Because that would be weird if you went around trying to pet girls’ heads, I mean you’d probably exist somewhere as a registered sex offender and would one day turn into a serial killer which the Boston Herald would  ‘cleverly’ refer to you as “The Head Petter,” or something else completely unoriginal. Mom’s just gotta make sure the ‘do doesn’t get too out of control (see Photo 1).

FIVE. Uncontrollable limbs. Babies are automatically forgiven for kicking and fist-pumping at us when we’re changing their diaper because they’re just having a ball trying to figure out what the hell to do with themselves. Like a drunk girl putting on lip gloss, it’s kind of funny to watch a baby reach for something that they want. Reach, miss. Reach, miss. Roll a bit. Get stuck. Haha.

SIX. Poor etiquette. Watching a baby eat is fun.

***

There’s more where that came from. Stay tuned for the next installment of The Science of Cuteness: Baby Edition. Read my freshly-posted The Science of Cuteness: Part Two. Because this blog post is getting frighteningly long and it’s an hour and a half past my bedtime. Still to come: The Science of Ugly: Celebrity Edition.

An excerpt

27 Feb

Below is a bit of the children’s story that I’ve been working on. Let me know what you think.

+++

Jeffrey continued to read out loud:

“It was a very colorful scene. Fat men, skinny men, tall men, short men, they were all seated around the table. Every single one of them was stuffing his face with fish and creamed corn, pausing only to suck down brew or to chuckle at another man’s story. And every so often one of the men would belch.” read Jeffrey.

“BRAAAWWWWP!” he heard. Jeffrey jumped, then scanned the children’s book section for the source of the sound. He even climbed back onto the bookshelf and looked over it. But he didn’t see anyone.

Someone must be playing a trick on me, thought Jeffrey. It seems as if everything I read is happening around me. But – how do they know exactly what I’m reading? He was confused.

“I’m not going to fall for your little trick,” he said out loud to no one in particular.

Then he shrugged and returned his eyes to the page, again reading the words aloud.

“Suddenly, a massive wave hit the side of the great ship. A few of the cups knocked over, spilling brew all over the grimy old table. ‘Looks like we got a storm headed our way, boys!’ yelled the oldest mate over the sound of the crew. The oldest mate had a beard as red as the tip of a match. They called him Ol’ Red.”

Jeffrey felt something wet on the bottom of his sleeves. He examined his arm. He watched as a dark, wet spot grew on his sleeve. Afraid that he was bleeding, he thrust both sleeves back and peered at his skin. Nothing. No cut, no blood…

He thought about what he had just read. The brew. The brew spilled all over the table. My sleeves are wet from the brew that spilled on the table. I’m sitting at the table. I’m in the story.

Jeffrey spent a minute or so staring into space in amazement. With his arm, he wiped the drool from his lower lip.

+++

That’s just one of my favorite parts that I’ve written so far. I’m eleven pages in.


Storytime with Samantha

13 Jan
(This Book Sucks)

(This Book Sucks)

Last night, I found a folder of stories written by 2nd-Grade-Me. At age 7, I thought I was “The Bomb” at writing. Screw being an astraunaut or firefighter; I wanted to be “A Writer” when I grew up, which, to me, consisted of sitting in a shack typing on a typewriter by candlelight, and wearing glasses. I’ve pretty much only followed through on the latter.
 
That being said, here are some excerpts from my captivating tales, for your viewing pleasure.
**PLEASE NOTE**
These excerpts are narrated by 21-Year-Old-Sam, not 2nd-Grade-Sam, because I’m not quite sure how to go back in time yet. If anyone has any tips on how to go back in time, please let me know, or send me a link. Sorry for any inconvenience.
 
Words of Wisdom
*alternate title: Rejected Wikipedia Entry
 
Pity Wow
And yes, I dyed my hair brown. You are so kind, I like it too.
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