Thundersnow and the Giant Clusterf**k

Illustration by Martin Austermuhle for DCist (12/19/09)

My three children have been waiting for it to snow for almost two months. Last year’s epic storms have spoiled them. They now expect to get a month off every winter in order to build snow forts, go sledding, eat pancakes, wear pajamas for sixteen hours a day while watching excessive amounts of television. They don’t understand that it may never happen again. And with all of the snow warnings this winter resulting thus far in a whole lot of nothing, I wasn’t sure that the predictions for this past week’s storm would amount to anything.

But it amounted to something. It amounted to a giant cluster of crap.

On Wednesday morning, school was inexplicably canceled. The roads were clear and the predictions (as usual) ranged from three to one hundred seventy five inches of snow. I had plenty of time to run my children around town doing errands so they’d be tired when the bad weather started and they realized they’d be stuck in the house for a while. Because that’s when Trapped Monkey Syndrome kicks in. And that must be avoided at all costs.

By 3:00pm, I noticed the rain had turned to ice pellets. Then I heard low booms of thunder and looked at the darkening sky. Aw nuts. My spidey senses started tingling, and I knew this was going to suck. The wisdom of the County School Board’s decision to cancel school became apparent. I had a sudden urge to bake. I called my husband at his office and invoked the rarely used “Lydia Directive” (which translates roughly to “come home NOW”). I last used the Lydia Directive when my contractions were 4 minutes apart.

As it turns out, 3:00 was too late to invoke the directive. Because my husband spent the next seven hours in his car trying to get home. The text messages from him went from annoyed to concerned to some strange mentality that invoked a landscape Beyond Thunderdome. (You'll get to read them later this week.) I worried for his survival. I worried that he’d run out of gas, that he’d get t-boned by a bus as it jack-knifed across the interstate, or that he would have PTSD from being trapped in his car with a full bladder for seven hours.

As it began to snow in earnest, my children’s delight became palpable. We got word that school was canceled for the next day and the romping was extensive and noisy. Gulp. How many days off were they going to get? I considered starting happy hour early but Oprah was still on and I have standards. Then I heard thunder again. The children began chanting “THUN-DER SNOW! THUN-DER SNOW!” and I started having bizarre eighties flashbacks.

A few hours later, I was doing my best to contain the craziness in my children stemming from the imminent blizzard and the double chocolate brownies I had felt compelled to bake. I wrestled them into jammies and forced them to brush their teeth. I was almost there. That blessed and most cherished moment of the day was nearly within my grasp. But bedtime, you are a dirty, dirty tease. The phone rang and it was my husband informing me that four and half hours into his trip he had gone less than five miles. He sounded haggard. He said something about lions. I heard another boom and the kids started screaming “THUN-DER SNOW!” again and the phone went dead in my hand.

Because at that moment, the power went out. It wasn’t thundersnow, after all. It was the loud thunder-crack of a transformer blowing. I looked at the window and saw snow falling on darkness. And I may have taught my children the “F” word. There are moments when I curse the fact that I am fluent in expletives and that the small ones have excellent memories.

This was quickly followed by a scramble to find candles in the dark. Candles that I had cleverly stored directly behind the light bulbs in my hall closet. Did you know that light bulbs make a delightfully tinkly sound as they shatter under your bare feet in the dark? And that it is an equally delightful experience trying to clean up broken glass in the pitch black while your children shriek “THUN-DER SNOW!” and jump around in precisely the glass strewn spot you have just told them not to be? I believe they went to bed that night so quickly because the alternative was dealing with a mommy who had clearly lost her schmidt.

So at 9:00pm, I found myself in a very odd position. I spend most of my life frenetically flapping about in varying levels of barely controlled domestic chaos. It is usually dirty – sticky really – and almost always mind-numbingly loud. It is a total cluster. I yearn for peace and quiet - for a reprieve from being bombarded by noise, requests, demands, tasks and the constant ping! of my phone telling me there’s something I need to check on or respond to.

But this was very, very different. My house was quiet. It was lit by candles, lending an ethereal glow to the crap on the carpet I had neglected to vacuum. Crap that I couldn’t vacuum now even if I wanted to. There was no noise. Inside my house was quiet and still. I stuck my head outside. The neighborhood was silent, too. I sat at the table with a glass of wine and stared at a book for about 15 minutes as the house grew colder. It was a long 15 minutes.



You can play Angry Birds or you can make a potentially
life saving phone call.  OK. Just one game.

I had nothing to do but sit and wait for my poor husband to make it home. I wanted to play Angry Birds, but I had to conserve my cell phone’s battery. I wanted to call every person I knew to make sure they were OK but… I couldn’t. I looked at the TV with fond sadness. I gave in and glanced at Facebook on my phone. Practically everyone I knew in the DC metro area was either freezing at home without power or stuck in a hellish, post-apocalyptic traffic scenario.

I hate you, Thundersnow.

But it was so peaceful. So quiet… I had been begging for this. I tried to enjoy it. It was probably another 20 minutes before I came to the realization that I totally f**king hate peace and quiet. I know what that says about me. That all I wanted to do was watch Bravo while fielding text messages from Kate and Facebooking. And maybe also talk on the phone. I apparently can’t stand being alone with myself for twenty minutes without losing my mind. Perhaps because this was the first time I’d been alone with total quiet in almost eight years.

I became so worried about my husband, and my children cold in their beds and being cut off from technology that I suddenly morphed into a human Golden Retriever. I stared out the window, possibly leaving a nose print. I paced around. I listened for each car, head cocked – was it his? Is he home?

At 10:45, he finally walked in the door. My anxiety was somewhat relieved. But it was not until the next evening, when the power came back on that my sanity was restored. Being without power or heat or light made me crazy. Thankfully due to trips to Trader Joe’s and Target the day before, we were well-stocked with all of the true essentials: fruit snacks, granola bars, peanut butter, Pirate Booty and a few bottles of Pinot Noir. Between that, a roaring fire in the fireplace, and the excessive snuggling required to stay warm, I was almost sorry when the power came back on. Almost.

But I still hate thundersnow.

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2011

How young is too young for make-up?

Here is our second segment from Let's Talk Live, where we discuss Walmart's new make-up line designed for little girls ages 8-12. You probably got a sense of my immediate response to the idea of tarting up little girls in last night's post. 

Here's a little background on our appearance on the show.  Of course it was a total cluster.  We were scheduled to be on for one segment on Thursday morning.  Wednesday afternoon, a craptastic snowstorm hit the DC area and managed to shut down pretty much every major road and bring down the power grid for 300,000 people.  Including both of us.  So we were under 8 inches of snow, in freezing dark houses and of course Kate was like: "WE ARE NOT CANCELLING."

So unshowered and nasty (Editor's note: Kate actually took what she referred to as a "prison shower".  It was two minutes long, ice cold and in the dark), we piled into her Volvo and slowly made our way into the city while our husbands took care of the beasties at home.  I thought going on TV and leaving everyone at home was a terrible idea.  Until we got there.  And there were bagels, and hot coffee, and heat.  It was awesome.  And a surprise. Since not everyone was as crazy dedicated as Kate, someone had cancelled and would we do a second segment?

So this is us, with no preparation (or personal hygeine) speaking on the fly about little girls and make-up.



A quick note about our names: A couple people were like WHUCK? Your names aren't actually Kate & Lydia?  The answer is no.  When we started this blog, we decided to protect our families' privacy.  So we never used real names or showed photos of our kids or ourselves.  When after about a year, we had an opportunity to become contributors for other websites and to appear on TV, we had to come out (but we still don't show our kids or use their names).  But at that point, we'd been writing as Kate & Lydia for a year and we liked it that way.  So in Mommyland, we remain Kate & Lydia - but in real life, we're Kristin & Julie.  Sorry if that's confusing! We're going to update the "About Us" page to make that clear...

Check out our column MATERNAL AMMUNITION at The Washington Times communities.
(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2011

Kate & Lydia on TV Again!

Guess what Kate & Lydia did on one of their snow days?  They went back on TV!  And because the weather was so crappy, some of the other guests didn't show up and they got to be on two segments of the show.  Yes, we're awesome by default but we're totally fine with that.  Keep in mind, we did this while our wonderful and amazing husbands stayed home with the kids with no power because of the stupid snowstorm.

Tomorrow night we'll post our discussion on Walmart's new make-up line for 8-12 year old girls.   Let's just say - we're not fans.  As you can see by Lydia's expression.

But anyway, that's tomorrow.  Here's our first segment, where we're talking about yesterday's post on purging stuff from your house...

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2011

Domestic Enemies of the RURAL Mom

Our friend Emily wrote this for us. She is a full-time student at 31, a proud farm wife, and the mother of three kids. She doesn't plan on growing up, but her job, if she ever graduates, will be teaching high school English--evidently she's a glutton for punishment.  We adore her and are so grateful for her putting this together for us.  You can check out her blog right here!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

I was raised in cities. Not ginormous cities like Louise described, but probably a good distance away from the burbs, as measured by instances of graffiti. So when as a teenager I moved to a small town I had never heard of in Idaho, a state that had a smaller population than the metropolis I most recently called home, I was justifiably shell shocked. Culture shocked. Just…shocked. But, once the weirdness settled into me I fell in love—with both the area and a farm boy, who I married and now I’ll die here. I love it. There are so many things that make our life wonderful and rare. However, we rural moms have a whole other set of domestic enemies that most people just don’t deal with or understand.

Grocery Shopping (or, stocking up for the zombie apocalypse)

Do you know how far I would have to drive if I wanted a T-Box? 70 miles--one hour, five minutes. Wal-Mart is a mercifully close 25 miles or half an hour-ish drive away. There is a grocery store in my own town, 8 miles away, but here’s the catch for rural groceries: they cost a lot more. Like $1.88 milk at Wal-Mart is $2.66 at the local store. This means that unless I want to spend half our money at the grocery store for a meager amount of food and toilet paper (I don’t even want to talk about diapers), I have to drive distances to get groceries.

With children, this is less a shopping trip and more an expedition to the Himalayas; with a strong possibility at least one of your children is going to be handed over to a Sherpa to keep. To be adequately prepared for the expedition, I need at least 40 diapers, except for when I had two kids in diapers and then I needed roughly 9 billion. Then there are snacks, spare clothes, list, coupons (the Cap’n would be so impressed), blankets, sanitizer, toys…I pack more crap to go to Wal-Mart than my ancestors packed to cross the Atlantic.

I don’t want to be driving 5o miles every other day just for milk or apples, so when I go, I get everything I will need for at least two weeks. At the end, my cart looks like I’m competing on “Supermarket Sweep.” My children, who started out looking like well cared-for, clean, pleasant tiny people look like…well…everybody else’s children at Wal-Mart, especially if this Wal-Mart is in West Virginia (I know, I’ve been there). I leave my home looking clean and put-together—I get back to it looking like a cult escapee.

Fuel (or, why I cry myself to sleep at night)

Fuel prices these days are a challenge for everyone. I can’t believe I’m a young person and I sound like a crabby old man; “When I was your age, gas cost less than a dollar, and you could get 5 nuggets on the dollar menu!” And that was only…well fine it was 15 years ago, but still. It seems excessive. Anyway, as I have already illustrated I have to drive to get anywhere. Drive a lot. I also do not live on a paved road, and have a long driveway that is also not paved but is frequented by tractors and cows. Plus, out here even a little bit of snow can be a disaster, because if the wind blows, there is nothing to stop that little bit of snow from drifting right up against the back of my car.

These challenges mean only one thing: if I don’t have 4-wheel drive, I’m stranded like a Donner for a good part of winter (which is roughly October to June) except I have satellite T.V. Distance+SUV=giant fuel budget. The kind that makes you wonder if you are personally going to get a tongue lashing from Al Gore (which really isn’t that scary, it’s just that people tend to follow him around with cameras, and what if they show up right when I’m getting home from Wal-Mart?).

Pests (Wild America, except with more rodents)

I fully sympathize with Louise here, except I have more critters. There are a lot of critters in rural America, largely because most of them have never been informed that this area has now been zoned for people, and even if they had, they don’t think much of The Man. We grow grain here. Grain is basically mouse food. Mice live in the fields, in the irrigation pipes, in old logs, abandoned cars, barns, equipment—everywhere. And as soon as it gets cold they are drawn to the warmth of MY HOUSE! It doesn’t help that I have cattle, and so surround my house with corn and straw and sweet molasses. My farm is basically a mouse Hilton. It is a constant, disgusting battle to keep these critters out. I am personally keeping the good people who make Bar Bait in business.

In addition to the rats and mice that infest the city, I also enjoy: feral cats, coyotes, skunks, beavers, mountain lions, huge owls, bald eagles (pretty, but taloned) and that’s just the wild animals. I also live with about 1000 calves. So in addition to the fear that my children will pet the wrong kitty and either get sprayed by disgusting bio-terror or rabies, I fear that the cows will get out and stampede my kids while they play in the sandbox. Do you have that, New York City? Plus, where there are cows, there are flies. Lots and lots and lots of flies. I love my cows, I love our life, but if I could kill every last one of the flies with just my mind, I would be more beloved around here than Larry the Cableguy.

There is so much that is awesome about out life—if I need something out of my car I can go get it in my underwear and no one will know, even if it’s at noon. We have so much room, and so much air, and feel connected to the land. My kids will learn to work hard and they’ll know where food comes from, building appreciation for the work that goes into making the safest food supply in the world. And by safe, I mean to eat, not to play with.

xoxo, Emily

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

Five Helpful Tips for Purging Crap

We think the winter purge has replaced spring cleaning. Mostly because right after the holidays, our houses are so crapped up with the junk that a big clean-out simply can’t wait until spring. I am truly terrible about things like laundry, cleaning and organizing. But guess what? I overcame my lack of ambition and my incredibly low standards! I recently cleaned, purged, organized and moved stuff around. And my house looks so much better. The first time Kate walked in after the transformation, her eyes got wide and in an awed voice she whispered: “It finally looks like grown-ups live here…”

So I thought in the spirit of being helpful, I would share some of my newfound knowledge.

Tip #1: Ask a military mom
I have a bunch of good friends who are military mommies. Here’s something I’ve noticed about them. Every year (whether they receive orders or not) they start getting twitchy. Like they know a big move is coming and it might be someplace like Okinawa, where you can’t bring anything that weighs more than 60 pounds unless you have its birth certificate. So they start paring down. And they’re really smart about it. Some stuff gets sold, some donated, some tossed. So when I needed help on what to get rid of and how to get rid of it – those were the first calls I made.

Tip #2: Assess your level of desperation to get rid of stuff on the time/money spectrum

The whole cleaning out process – whether it’s one room or your whole house – represents a big chunk of your probably non-existent free time. So you have to figure out up front how much of that time you’re willing to invest and what you really hope to accomplish. Some examples might help.

I had a friend named Charlotte who had a closet full of fancy shoes in size 7 that she could no longer wear because no one told her that if you get pregnant twice in two years bizarre things happens to your body. Like your feet swelling to a size 8 and then staying that way. She also had an enormous collection of hideous ceramic people that she hated and were under constant threat from the grubby fingers of her two small children. So she took her time and carefully sold all her old Jimmy Choos and large eyed ceramic collectibles on eBay and a month later got a check for almost $3,500.

I had another friend named Kate who had one day off of work and had to get her house cleaned out or else her head would explode. So she filled up twelve hundred garbage bags and hauled them out to the curb and then had three glasses of wine and two Advil. The end. [Editor's Note: It was awesome. -Kate]

Can I get WOOT WOOT for Mommyshorts? She took this chart from whack to mack with her mad skillz.
She wrote all about "The Gift of Awkwardness" & the Bugaboo stroller.  So you already know she's bad ass.

Tip #3: “Just get it all out of my house today or I will lose my Schmidt”.

If your priority is getting rid of unwanted stuff as fast as possible, I have a couple of suggestions.

• Put it on the curb for Big, Enormous Crap Pick-Up Day.
• Call your friend with the pick-up and offer him (or in my case her) a case a beer (or in my case keg of beer) to haul it to the dump for you.
• Call or click on a charity (like GoodDonor.org) that will come pick up your stuff ASAP. Sometimes they can get there sooner than the garbage man which is an epic WIN as you get rid of it all super fast and you get to feel all warm and fuzzy and tax deduction-y.
• Or failing all of that you could just start a fire. To be clear, that was a joke.

Tip #4: “I want this stuff gone but I hate to just throw it all away.”

If you’ve managed to glean some things that you think someone else might want from your piles of recently purged crap, but you’re short on time and you’re torn about wanting to toss them - you have a couple of choices.

• Donate it to a group that will come pick it up. Kind of a no-brainer.
• Throw it all in your mini-van and drive to the closest thrift store. The big win here is that you can get all out of your house the same day and then you’re DONE. In the good way, for once.
• www.freecycle.com . It’s free to join and pretty straightforward to use. You list everything you want to get rid of and people come and take it. Just put it on the corner so they can’t be sure which is your house – because of the creepy unknown factor (yes, I am paranoid – we’ll get to that later).

Tip #5: “If I can make some money from this stuff, it is ON like Donkey Kong.”

• Yard Sales are tricky. The pro’s: you don’t have to move anything, you don’t have to pay a commission to sell anything and you don’t have to photograph each piece like you would if you tried to sell it on-line. BUT yard sales can be a multi-day process, getting permission, setting them up, promoting them, the actual sale, and then getting rid of all the crap that didn’t sell. And there are yard sale people (I’m related to some of them) who troll around for sales on Saturdays and they will not to pay more than $5 for your kid’s old bike, even if it’s worth $50.
• Local kids consignment stores will buy stuff directly from you for about half of what it’s worth. But it’s easy – pack it up, drive it there, they look it over and buy what they want. And you leave with a check and less crap.
• Consignment sales are great but more work for you because you have to go through each item you want to sell and tag it. You have to make careful lists of what you’re sending to the sale and fill out paperwork, and half the time I end up buying more stuff than I’ve sold. But if you have a high end item like a Bugaboo stroller, you can sell it for what it’s worth and not have to worry about shipping (eBay) or creepy strangers coming to your house (Craig’s List).
• Craig’s List or eBay. If you have something that’s valuable– you can earn the most money by doing it this way. Craig’s List is good because it’s local, but then you have to deal with strangers from the internet. Please meet them in the Starbucks parking lot or something, or I’ll worry. eBay is good because its impersonal and there’s a much bigger market for what you’re selling. Just don’t forget to factor in shipping costs. Shipping a Thomas the Tank Engine Play Table is about as much fun as getting oral surgery. And maybe more expensive.

Hopefully these tips have been helpful. As far as my house is concerned, I don’t shoot for keeping up with the Joneses or having it look like the Pottery Barn catalog. I shoot for not embarrassing. And having met that goal, it feels pretty good.

xo Lydia

P.S. Both Kate and I saved something for the other one to burn. We're planning an evening for the Hideous Item Ritual Sacrifice. We'll tap a t-box and then get out the matches and the video camera. There's a good chance it'll be an Oscar-worthy film. There's also an equally good chance we'll end up in a burn unit.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A little note from Kate & Lydia:
This post is being simulcast on parenting column "Maternal Ammunition" @ the Washington Times communities. If rotten weather doesn't keep us trapped in our houses with our children rapidly devolving towards becoming howler monkeys, we'll also be chatting about this on Let's Talk Live (11am on Channel 8 if you live around Washington, DC).  We tend to be pretty idiotic on live television, so please tune in?


(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2011

Brand New Year, Brand New Kat -- Oh, Never Mind

Some old dude* way back when said that "...the road to hell is paved with good intentions." I'm not sure whether or not I think that's the case. Mostly because I kinda think my road to hell is paved with t-boxes, Godiva dark chocolate and the Pink Velvet boxed DVD set of Sex and the City. And, hopefully strewn with clothes that were recently on Jon Hamm but then he got warm and started stripping off. I guess what I'm saying here is that I got all New Year's Resolution-y and have quickly realized that I'm just not cut out for it. I also think my road to hell might be a lot of fun, but that's not supposed to be the point, is it?

I wrapped my Brand New Kate philosophy around the idea that it's not only a new year, but a new decade, and that, by the end of it, I'll be in a new decade. And I was going to kick Forty's ass.

Well, twenty-four days into it, 2011 is not looking any better than 2010 did. It also is becoming increasingly clear that I am going to be Forty's bitch when it comes. Here's where I think I might have gone wrong...

• Working Out My birthday was over a month ago. And, I planned my 30 Day Shred so strategically that I would finish Day 30 the day before my birthday. Which, coincidentally, is also the last time I did any measurable sweating. I fully expect Jillian to show up -- or at least, her attorneys, which I imagine to be over muscled women in Ann Taylor sweater sets over leather bondage suits -- and hand me a Cease & Desist order forbidding me to mention that I ever Shredded ever. "You shredded? For 30 Days? At the highest level? And this is what you look like? You can't even walk to the mailbox without gasping for breath and leaving a trail of Doritos in your wake." And then I'll be banned from Flare-y Nostril Land. Please Jillian? If I promise to be good and not go to the grocery store in my workout pants that have, of late, just become mocking-me-because-I'm-not-using-them-for-workout pants, can I come back? I have 33 days until I have to be in a bikini in a place where they evict you from the beach if you aren't up to par. Jillian, I NEED you.

• Food I make a mean tomato and cucumber salad. And if I eat it while talking to Lydia on the phone and responding to emails, I'm pretty sure it's entirely possible to burn more calories that I'm taking in. But seeing that it's January and I'm not buying tomatoes at $4.99 a pound when I get them for free in my backyard all summer means that it's out with the delicious and nutritious salad, and in with Egg Nog Coffee and raw cookie dough.  And last night I had three glasses of wine and a jar of marshmallow fluff. For about seventeen seconds, I considered combining the two together, but I think that it's possible I was sitting too close to the fireplace while watching Strange Addiction. She was eating sofa cushions, so I figure that I still have a ways to go between sanity and Mallow Noir. Although Cheetos dipped in peanut butter is a culinary delicacy and I want the trademark on that. I'll use the millions to pay for the liposuction.

• Yelling Lydia and I talked just before New Years about taking that vital and necessary Deep Breath before responding to some of the insane things our children say. Our theory was that, just by taking a breath and pausing, we'd grab a little tighter hold of sanity and rationale and reason, and then we'd be able to explain something calmly and coolly. Funny thing. Turns out that big deep, lung-filling breath just means you can yell louder, and for longer. I might be turning flabby and cellulite-y, but my lungs? Oh, they're in Olympic-level shape. Now we just need to be able to medal in Screaming People Stupid. I still want to conquer my Angry Yelling Syndrome, and it's still a goal for 2011. One of my friends suggested whispering as a way to compel the IHPs to listen, but they just thought I had lost my voice and took to answering the telephone for me and announcing all sorts of information over the phone. Oh, and just for the record, my house is NOTHING like Vegas. What happens here gets blabbed about all over town. Also, we don't seem to have people who bring me cocktails.

• Money It's simple: Spend Less, Save More. Right? So, why am I being conspired against? Dear Awesome Stores That I Love: Please stop sending me coupons, deals, info on sales, anything that sounds like, rhymes with, or has the same letters as Buy One, Get One Free. I'm trying to be good here. Also, please stop sending condolence cards to my family. Just because I've managed to go three months without a new pair of Jimmy Choos doesn't mean I died. It just feels like I did.

• Get Stuff Done (Minus the Lists) It's possible that this was my worst idea. I like getting stuff done, but I know I drive my family crazy with lists and Lists and List Lists. [Editor's Note: Yes, they're totally different. The little "l" lists are just notes to myself but aren't part of the day's events. Like "call Lydia" -- I mean, duh, I'm going to do that about ten thousand times today anyway. That I wrote it down means that I have something specific to tell her, like that she's a stupid hooker.  Big "L" Lists are things that MUST get done, like return something to Target or "go to work" -- things that better happen or there's gonna be someone pissed off at the end of the day. Usually me. And, of course, List Lists are the MackDaddy of lists. Lists of things that require more lists. Which, unsurprisingly, makes me gloriously happy.]  Anyhow, the point of this was to make less lists. Which I was semi-successful at until I realized that I've forgotten to do about 67 things over the past month. The one that comes to mind is the one where. I. was. supposed. to. go. to. work. Whuck?!? They had to call me. At home. And wonder where I was and why I wasn't there. And they had to do it all British-y so it was like Mary Poppins was scolding me about whether or not I had jumped into a chalk drawing that afternoon and lost track of time during a horse race. Which was immediately followed by me cursing and yelling and imploring Nanny to save my ass and I think I might have given her another raise. Or possibly bought a ostrich farm. 

I'm hoping that, by writing all this out, that it will get me back up on that wagon or horse or saddle or why are they all rodeo stuff? Well, I guess I've never actually fallen off my heated Volvo driver's seat. OK, just that once. Sheeesh. 

Lydia gave me Jillian's 30-Day Yoga Meltdown last week. I'm wondering if she's risking Jillian's ire by smuggling it to me. But I'm determined to be a better, quieter, healthier, thriftier, less list-ier Kate in the coming months.  And, I could probably do with a little zen and oohm'ing at this point.


It's either that, or go shopping for a handbasket. I heard the ride to hell is loads more fun in one of those. 


xoxo Kate

 *According to the omnipotent "them" on the internet, it was either said by Samuel Clemens (you know, Mark Twain) OR Karl Marx. Really? We can't narrow that down? They kinda had really different philosophies, didn't they? That's kinda like saying that "I think, therefore I am" was uttered by Descartes. Or Elmo. I'm totally going with Elmo on this one. 

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2011

Misnomers in MommyLand

It occurred to me recently that I needed to keep track of something - all of the words that my kids get wrong.  Because I started this blog when my oldest daughter was 6.  She was the queen of getting words wrong and making adorable and inappropriate mistakes.  And because I didn't write them down, I've now forgotten more than I will ever remember.  It's a little like the lexicon of kid words.  It's just a few recent vignettes of when my kids thought a word meant something and it didn't.

Here we go...

While looking at a dinosaur book with my five year old son.

Lydia: Very good! That was a T-Rex.  Now,what kind of dinosaur is this?

Hawk: Oh. That's easy. That's a Vagisil.

Lydia: (Chokes - sprays coffee)

Hawk: Momma. That was a library book. (shakes head in disgust)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While ever so quickly texting Kate while also preparing dinner and hearing all about a Girl Scout meeting...

Thumbelina (age 7): Mom, you're such a phony!

Hawk: Yah.

Mini (age 2): Yah.

Lydia: What? I am keeping it real every day, people.  I am from NEW JERSEY, and even though you have no idea what that means, just know it means that I am no phony.  I am totally upfront and straightforward and it very often gets me in trouble... Why do you all look confused?

Thumbelina: Momma. What are you talking about? Look in your hand. Your phone. You're super phony. All the time.

Lydia: Oh.Yes. I'm totally phony. (hangs head in shame)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While watching TV, flipping channels...

Hawk: Momma! Go back. 

Lydia: Go back where? To what?

Hawk: To the guy with the buttstash.

Lydia: The WHAT?

Hawk: (sighing) The bald guy with the buttstash. 

Lydia: Buttstash?

Hawk: Yah. The hairy thing  - right here. (points to his upper lip).  Yah! That's the guy.



Buttstache, indeed.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While walking into Target with their father.

Thumbelina: When did you meet mommy again?

Cap'n Coupon: I met your mom when I was in Law School.

Hawk: What the jabbers is LAW SCHOOL? (looks skeptical as if it is actually a made up term)

Thumbelina: (condescendingly superior) Hawk, Law School is exactly like high school.  Except its for old people.

Hawk: (looks at his father, nods) Yah.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While reading a book about Eloise and her tutor Phillip going to a museum...

Thumbelina: Why does Eloise have a tutor?
Lydia: To teach her things.

Thumbelina: WHAT things?

Lydia: Lots of things. In this case, things about dinosaurs.

Thumbelina: And he gets paid? That's his job?

Lydia: Yes.

Thumbelina: (shrugs) I thought it was REALLY bad manners to toot.  But you say that's his job.  To toot and to teach kids how to do it.  I guess like a dinosaur.  I just... I don't get it.  Life is crazy.

Hawk: (nods thoughtfully - as if contemplating his future) Oh yah.

Chapter 1 is entitled "Pull My Finger".

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Do you have any Mommyland Misnomers to share? Leave comment here or shoot me an email @ Lydia.and.Kate@rantsfrommommyland.com
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you liked this, you may also want to read the Lexicon of Awesome Kid Words:

Volume 1

Volume 2

Volume 3

Volume 4

Volume 5

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2011

Domestic Enemies of the URBAN Mom

Kate and Lydia, because they live in the suburbs, fight different domestic enemies depending on the season and the weather. Our girl Guru Louise, however, is the big city mouse, where the domestic enemies don't vary so much season-to-season...they do, however, make us feel a little better about leaves. Particularly that leaves aren't skittery animals with long creepy tails...

--------------------------

There are a lot of wonderful, amazing things about raising children in the city. My children get to ride the subway, visit arguably the best museums in the world, and when we walk down the street to our neighborhood market they hear people speaking in tongues. However, this suburban girl had a few things to get used to when her husband was transferred here a few years ago. I still don’t understand the rampant littering, the incredibly high cost of living (I once paid $7.89 for a dozen eggs), and don’t even get me started on how often I see public urination. But when I gave birth to my first baby a few months after our move, far greater enemies were revealed. The domestic enemies of the urban mom:

The Laundromat
This might be obvious, but apartment living means no in-house washer/dryer. If you’re super lucky your apartment building might have shared coin-operated machines in a terrifying, dank room that has lint balls the size of Chihuahuas on the floor. Most of us urban moms have to journey to the local laundromat with the family’s soiled belongings. Now all of you non-urban moms, please take a moment to consider how you would get all the dirty laundry currently in your house to the laundromat without a car. Then add an unruly toddler. And be pregnant. Yeah, that was me last winter. I had two tactics: either push the laundry and carry the toddler, or vice versa. I wish I had a photograph of me 35 weeks pregnant with 20 pounds of laundry strapped to my back and my screaming 2 year-old strapped in her stroller with snot and chocolate milk smeared all over her face. It really is one of my *favorite* motherhood memories. Once you finally make it to the laundromat you then have 2.5 hours to kill with your child in a confined space. My kids usually spent that time eating lint out of the dryer traps, using the laundry carts as bumper cars, or committing laundry larceny.

Oh yes, and let’s not forget when my daughter caught the stomach virus the last winter. She would puke and poo and puke again and there was no where to put the filthy, revolting laundry. Seriously, this mess may have rivaled Lydia at Five Guys. I did my best to rinse the chunks out in the bathroom but then I just started shoving the sheets, PJs, clothes, couch covers and every other soiled fabric into trash bags in the entryway of our apartment. What else could I do? Take an actively vomiting child to the laundromat? By the end of the second day my husband came home to find our daughter nibbling saltines and wearing an XXL Miller Lite T-shirt and a swimsuit bottom.

Pests
We all know city living equals crowded living, which means pests. I’m a reasonably clean person but there is no fighting the presence of pests in my city. I’m talking about the nasty ones, too, like roaches, mice, bed bugs, and even rats (my least favorite). You can be neat as a pin but if you have a disgusting next door neighbor then you. will. have. pests.

You can imagine how shocked I was one day to realize that we had turned into the dirty neighbors. My husband was up late one night when he saw a giant mouse waltz through our living room and dive at a piece of waffle that my toddler had thoughtfully shoved into the radiator. I used to envy how some moms had dogs that would eat up the food bits their kids dropped on the floor. But really, you don’t need a doggie vacuum in the city—your resident pests take care of it each night. Awesome.

The most horrifying story I know about city pests is from my friend Melissa in NYC. She was at Washington Square Park with her son and witnessed a particularly fearless rat jump into the basket of her friend’s Bugaboo stroller to enjoy a tasty pastry her friend had tucked away. True story. There was a murther-furking RAT IN HER KID’S STROLLER. Did you just gag and throw up in your mouth a little bit?

Playground Sprinklers
Every single one of my neighborhood’s five playgrounds has a water-play feature in the summer. While I agree that this “perk” is entirely necessary for keeping children from over-heating in the staggering summer temps, I hate these sprinklers with every fiber of my being. If your kid loves water play then you cannot keep him out of the sprinklers, which means that what used to be a simple, quick trip to get some fresh air turns into an ordeal of extra shoes, clothes, towels, etc. Also, FYI ladies: those swim diapers only catch poop so if you put one on your kid for the sprinklers and then put him in the bucket swing he will leave a puddle of urine for the next child. If your kid hates the sprinklers (like mine) then they get mega pissed off when the water-loving kids leave a warm puddle (of what?) in the bucket swings or inadvertently turn the slide into a water park attraction with their sopping Pampers. Throw in the ice cream truck on a 15 minute loop and really, it’s just a good time all around. Thank you, Parks Department.

Parking
This is another thing my suburban mom friends regularly take for granted. When we finally got a car during our second year here I was elated…until I realized I had to park the damn thing. I often return home from a morning of errands with two cranky kids and a trunk full of rapidly spoiling groceries only to discover that there is no parking in front of my building, or near my building, or anywhere on the whole freakin’ street.

What follows is a dizzying waltz where I double park in front of our building’s entrance, lock the kids in the car and rapidly dart back and forth from my trunk to the building, haphazardly dumping my groceries inside the building entryway while frantically screaming, “I’ll be right back!” at the kids. I’m fairly certain I look like a psychotic poodle on uppers. No matter where I am in this relay race I’m either worried about someone stealing my groceries or stealing my kids.

Despite all these enemies I’ve actually loves raising my kids here. However, like many families, we’ve decided to move our family back out to the ‘burbs soon, mostly to find better schools, etc. Soon I’ll be battling the domestic enemies of the suburban mom…but each time my picky kid showers the floor with her dinner I’ll think fondly of the city mouse family that took residence with us each year. They were such good eaters…

xoxo Guru Louise
-----------------
PostScript:

Guru Louise has said goodbye to New York City...and hello to Boston. Boston Mommies, give a shout out to our girl, as you probably remember how hard it is to make mommy friends in a new city. In January.

xoxo Kate

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

Domestic Enemies of the Suburban Mom: Winter Edition

Kate and I have written about the Domestic Enemies of the Suburban Mom before but felt that the dead of Winter called for a new discussion of the battles we fight every day.

Kleenex

For the first two weeks of January, my children entertain me with sounds of sniffing, snuffling and snorting. Oh, and wiping the stuff that actually escapes their respective noses on their respective sleeves...as if the sound isn't gross enough. By week three, I have had enough, and I break down and buy Kleenex. The big size for the bathroom and the kitchen, and the little individual packs for their schoolbags so they will stop torturing their teachers with all that snotty cacophony. And, just like that, all three of them turn into small, undignified, American versions of Queen Elizabeth, waving hankies around like they're greeting the masses. And using them instead of toilet paper. And using 17 for one nose blow. And missing the trash can. And leaving little wispy, snotty hidden surprises on my desk, in my car, and in the pocket. of. my. coat. Whuck?! As if that isn't bad enough, Happy is only four and still hasn't outgrown the thrill of pulling one out of the box and watching another one POP! up. And then doing it again. And again. Andagainandagainandagainandagain. And then the box is empty, and the snotty chorus begins again.

On the upside, I've taught them the art of keeping a clean one tucked up in their sleeve, just in case they come across a tearful sort while we're at Target. It's been known to happen.

Mittens

I did an inventory this morning. We have 27 (twenty-SEVEN) gloves and mittens in varying kid sizes. Eight of them have mates. The others must belong to the guy that killed Harrison Ford's wife in that movie. One pair -- haha, it's not a pair any more -- still has the itchy plastic-y thing that holds the price tag on it. The price tag holder is still there, but the matching glove isn't? How is that even possible? I bought them Saturday. I think my house is the epicenter of the Mitten Cage Match of Death. Two go in, but only one comes out. And now my kids are going to school looking like 80's pop music icons with questionable fashion taste. 

The Television

I hate my TV but I can't seem to turn it off.  During the dark months of winter, if my stupid TV is actually turned off, its for one of three reasons. (1) We're not home. (2) We're all sleeping. (3) The TV is broken. I have no idea why the damn thing is on all the time. My entire family has watched so much of it since late December that there's nothing left to watch. I turn it off, I leave the room - it magically turns itself back on. I ask the kids: "Why did you do that? You don't even like this show." They can't respond because they're in a coma of Disney-tween-programming. All I get is grunts and vacant expressions. So I turn it off again and force them to do something productive and they glare at me with a fury reserved for ancient blood feuds and Spanish soap operas.  But I'm not any better. After 9pm every night you will find me slack-jawed and mono-syllabic in the comfy chair watching things like American Idol and Top Chef, getting dumber every second. 

Post-Christmas Flabbiness of Ass and Mind

This segues nicely into the feeling that despite (sort of) keeping up with my New Year's resolutions, I am both dumber and fatter than I was a month ago.  Is it that it gets dark earlier?  Doesn't that cause Seasonal Ass-flabby Disorder or something? I want to either be sleeping or curled up with my kids and a blanket pretty much all the time.  Is it that the cold weather makes me want to eat lots of warm comfort food? Or drink a size XXL glass of red wine every night? Or read books that make me even more idiotic? In either case, I am in need of an extra shot of espresso and Jillian Michaels to come to my house to kick me in the face.  Starting tomorrow.

Cold and Flu Season
This should be called by its more accurate name: "The Season of at Least Once Person Will Be Sick For Three Consecutive Months".  If you're lucky - you're just dealing with colds and the flu and maybe one of the stupid viruses that gives you a nasty fever but no other symptoms.  Kate's family recently had The Beast.  Yes, friends - the stomach flu ran through every single person in her house - sometimes twice.  There is nothing worse than being struck down buy the sickness that leaves you squirting out of both ends.

Snow Storms

The excitement and anticipation that your children experience when a snow storm is coming is somewhat dampened by the reality that it will all turn into an enormous pain in your ass.  It starts with a massive amount of frenetic flapping around at the grocery store and Target as if the food supply is going to run out due to 3 inches of snow that might not actually fall. 

It leads into the bizarro anticipatory behavior of our children, hopping around the house waiting for the first flakes to fall as if actual ants were in their actual pants. It's quickly followed by wanting to play outside (see next topic).  Then cabin fever arrives with the realization that you're all trapped in the house together for an unspecified period of time.  This is accompanied by excessive whining and abrupt bursts of energy and screaming.  Mommies, in this situation it is perfectly acceptable to start drinking before Oprah is over.

My Children
Also called "Go Play Outside! Oh that's right you can't for the next two months." And it goes a little something like this:
Step One: Dress children in snow pants, coats, hats, gloves, scarves. (20 minutes)
Step Two: Go outside and play. Wait for smallest child to say "I haffa go potty!" (10 minutes)
Step Three: Take small child back inside. Undress. Take to the potty. Simultaneously monitor activities of other children that are still outside smashing each other in the face with snow and shrieking. Redress small child who now insists on doing it all by themselves. (30 minutes)
Step Four: Return outside. Listen to your children complain that they are cold and want to go inside. Use deep breathing techniques to maintain temper and not lose your schmidt as you are in the front yard and the neighbors might hear. (14 minutes) 

Step Five: Return inside, undress children in foyer to minimize snow and ice being tracked through otherwise tidy house.  You are left with half-naked children leaping through the hallway as if lack pants has turned them into gazelles or rabbits.  You are also left with a pile of soaking wet snowpants, coats, hats, gloves, scarves and socks so largethat it is now impossible to open your front door. (10 minutes)

Step Six: After meeting demands for hot cocoa and getting children settled on sofa and enjoying first moment of quiet, you unknowingly step on a large piece of snow that has somehow found it's way into your family room and scream "SONOFA! That's COLD AS HELL!" at which point your children laugh uproariously at your expense and repeat your exact words over and over as if practicing to tell their father what you've taught them in his absence. (15 minutes) 
Step Seven: Declare that no child shall play outside until after April 1. Understand that this will be impossible to enforce as your children's bad behavior will literally have you flinging them outside rather than listen to one more argument over Super Mario Bros or Just Dance 2. (1 minute)
Total elapsed time: Who the hell cares?  It was all a stupid cluster as usual.  Thanks, Winter.

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2011

The Preschool Application

Maybe where you live, choosing a preschool is no big deal.  Or perhaps you're cool and laid back and you picked your preschool because its around the corner and has a nice playground.  Maybe its not some insane-in-the-membrane, cluster-iffic process of finding the Perfect Preschool so that your Precious Angel is prepared for Kindergarten and given every advantage in starting their all-important Academic Journey.

There are strong opinions on this topic.  Don't even get me started on Montessori schools and $12,000/year tuition for morning preschool.  It's great and all - but WHUCK?! That's crazytown.  They're three. They're learning things like "don't crap your pants" and "this is how to stand in line" and "you should sit on the piece of tape that says your name" and "try not to bite people if they accidentally take your crayon".  You shouldn't be paying the equivalent of college tuition for that. 

In my neck of the woods, parents start looking at preschools the year before their kids start (or sometimes even earlier).  They spend as much time and effort researching preschools as doctoral students spend on their dissertations.  They apply for a spot in their chosen school at least nine months before the school year starts.  They get in line to file those applications at 4am. 

I have never been one of those maniacs parents. But I came close.  I bought into the madness.  Five years ago, after moving to the suburbs of Washington, DC, I evaluated eleven preschools.  Then I found mine.  Let's call it "Totally Awesome Church Preschool".  It was amazing.  The staff was incredible. The building was perfect. The kids were so happy and sweet.  The curriculum was NAEYC accredited!  The gold standard! It was parent participatory, so I could go to school with my precious angel and help out in the classroom and get to know all the other children and their families. Maybe my friendless, lonely self would even make a mommy friend there!*

*And I did make mommy friends!  Eventually I even met Kate, but only after she was kind of mean to me.  Then we bonded over a mutual meltdown in the preschool parking lot and now she wuvs me and the rest is history.

So I applied.  I filled out the 27-page application.  I submitted personal information for two separate criminal background checks.  I got a TB test.  I wrote a big deposit check.  I showed up at 5:45am to submit my registration and because I was so much later than all the other parents, I secured the very last spot in the class.  But I got it.  Whew! And also Wooo!

Flash forward five years later.  I loved the preschool so much I volunteered for everything.  Then I became a church member.  Then I found out something amazing and magical.  The children of church members automatically get into the preschool.  They get first dibs on admissions.  They have to take my kid.  And that's a big relief because the only little kid I've got left is Mini.  And she's a devil cupcake, an evil genius, and quite possibly listed on multiple TSA and FBI watch lists. 

I didn't think there was any point in being anything other than totally honest in my preschool application because of several important reasons:
(1) They have to take her.
(2) They know both me and Kate pretty well and know that we're a little whackadoodle.
(3) They read this blog and they know my kid.

I thought I'd share 2 pages of the 27 page application:

- page 2 -

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

Top Ten Threats (That We'll Never Actually Enforce)

 When I had kids, I promised myself I'd never say the one phrase I heard far too often as a kid:

"Because I said so..."

In retrospect, I might have been a little hasty. "Because I said so..." seems to have some magical powers that I wish I could have. Namely, the ability to invoke the power of oneself.  Instead, I have involuntarily ceded that power to dad, teachers, the principal, the karate instructors, neighbors, the mailman and, possibly, the dog.

Now, with the power in the hands (paws?) of others, I'm forced to come up with awesomely creative, yet completely impotent threats that either defy physics and logic, or that I'm simply too exhausted to enforce...

...or possibly, it could be that I'm the stupidest person on earth for letting phrases such as these escape my lips:

10. "If you don't stop touching each other right now, I'm going to SuperGlue your foreheads together and with any luck you'll all pass out from the morning breath and stop complaining about who's touching you...now go brush your teeth."

9. "Must you yell? Tell you what, I'll go make you a little felt hat, and then we'll get you a job as Town Crier. And then you can stand in the Town Hall building and holler out the time and weather and news every hour and people will throw oranges at you and tell you to shut it, and it'll be cold and rainy and you'll wish you never started yelling in the first place, not to mention the fact that you don't know how to tell time...no, I'm not making you a hat."

8. "If you don't eat your dinner, you're just going to see it again for breakfast. And then lunch. And dinner again. And every meal after that until you decide to eat it. Forever."

7. "No you will not get a piercing. I don't care if I have one. If you get any piercings, I'm not paying for college. And you can get used to saying, 'Would you like fries with that?'"

6. "If you don't take a bath -- and I mean right now -- you're not going to school tomorrow."

5. "STOP IT OR I'M GOING TO SMACK YOU INTO NEXT WEEK!"

4. "If you don't stop ordering your sister around, I'm gonna put you in a uniform, make you stand guard duty all night and when the sun comes up, you can clean the bathroom with your toothbrush."

3. I know. I'm the meanest mommy in the whole wide world. You can go get another one. I'll help you pack for your journey."

2. "Just so we're clear. You don't have a job, you don't have any money and you don't know how to drive. There's about two weeks worth of food, heat and entertainment in this house and then you're on your own. Do you really want to continue arguing with me?"

1. "Did you hit your brother again? Did I tell you to cut it out? C'mere for a minute. Let's look at some orphanages you might like."


(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

The Great Debate: PajamaJeans

We’ve been awed by the response to PajamaJeans since they were first brought to our attention several months ago. As you know, Kate cares about fashion. She wears Jimmy Choos, has car payment hair and is nicknamed Fancy. Lydia on the other hand, usually buys her clothes in the same place she buys her diapers. She dyes her own hair and has it cut by a nice lady at the Hair Cuttery in the Walmart shopping center.

So because we’re so different, we decided to debate it. We figured between the two of us, we could cover every angle of this important topic. We chose a couple of issues and now we’ll discuss. It will be based on the historical Lincoln/Douglass Debate except without dignity, intelligence or substantive knowledge of any kind. There may also be name calling and inappropriate language.

What are Pajama Jeans?
Lydia: PajamaJeans are a pants that are said to be as comfortable as pajama pants to wear but look exactly like jeans. According to the advertisement, they are basically indistinguishable from jeans, but are comfy and cozy like your favorite flannel PJ bottoms.

Kate: PajamaJeans are yet another wildly unsuccessful attempt to combine two things that should never, ever be paired together. You know what looks like jeans? Jeans! And you know what shouldn’t look like jeans? Pajamas. Saying that they’re indistinguishable is like saying there’s really no difference between Jon Hamm and *a* ham.

Pajama Jeans can be accessorized to look snazzy.
Kate: Totally! Add a themed sweater with knobby balls and a gross over-reaching of candy canes or jack o'lanters or shamrocks or whatever holiday you're going for these days, some striped socks with the individual toe pockets, a pair of clogs made solely out of a hunk of tree bark and a freshly skinned bunny, a headband with those sproingy alien antennas bouncing on the top of your head, no bra, yesterday's makeup highlighting today's wrinkles and neon green chipped nail polish. By comparison, your "jeans" will look incredible. You'll totally be the best dressed mom in the whack ward of St. Crazy's.

Lydia: Dial it back there, Kate. It's possible. I have totally snazzed up my yoga pants.  Remember that time I wore them on TV with the clogs you gave me?  Remember that? When you just shook your head over and over again because I was wearing yoga pants and clogs on TV with you?  And then you were you like "Well...at least they're not Pajama Jeans" and I was all "Not this time, anyway!" 
Pajama Jeans are an improvement over wearing actual pajamas in public.

Lydia: As someone who on a fairly frequent basis drives her kids to school in yellow, flannel cats-holding-umbrellas pajama bottoms – I think I can safely say that pajama jeans would represent an improvement. It should be said that on mornings when this occurs it is generally due to excessive lateness and turtle herding and the assumption that I will not have to get out of the car. About 50% of the time, it happens that the door won’t shut or someone forgets their backpack and the Kiss N Ride line receives the magical gift of seeing my fat ass in yellow kitty pj’s. And crocs.

Kate: I think I just threw up a little in my mouth. For the record, I’ll concede the point that PajamaJeans would be an improvement over the feline “Singin’ in the Rain” homage…but I’m pretty sure I’d rather take my chances and just go through the Kiss ‘n’ Ride line bare ass naked first. With actual crocodiles on my feet.

Pajama Jeans make your ass look good.

Kate: Says who? Says the ad? Ummm, what are they going to say? “Warning: should you actually sleep in these, and you’re one to flail about in bed like you’re wrestling an alligator in a death roll, you’ll wake up with the waistband twisted so far that the tag is embedded in your bellybutton and the pants wedged up to your crotch, there’s a decent chance that the fabric will be so stretched out that your ass will look like it’s melting down the backs of your knees. You might not want to consult a mirror. Ever again.”

Lydia: Yes, Kate. Says the ad. I have seen that ad about 400 times now and I’m starting to believe all the things that is says. They say that they flatter every type of ass. I mean type of "figure". We all know they really mean "ass". I know that it’s no better than my kids' annoyingly Pavlovian response to the Moon Sand commercial but the PajamaJeans ad is just so… convincing. They do make her ass look good. You know what else? They would be good for travel because they wouldn’t get wrinkly. Then again… jeans don’t get wrinkly. And those models have skinny thighs that don’t seem to touch. And totally flat tummies. Awwww CRAP.

Pajama Jeans are too expensive.

Lydia: I agree. $40 is too expensive for either jeans or pajamas.  The fact that they're combined doesn't mean I'm going to pay twice as much.  I mean, for $40 at Old Navy I could jeans and pajamas and yoga pants. And probably some other random crap from the clearance section.  So I agree, $40 is way too much to spend on a pair of pants.  But that damn commercial makes them seem magical or something.  So I'm not going to lie and say I haven't been tempted to order some.  I heard they had knock-off pajama jeans at Five Below for $5 and I am thisclose to going to score a pair of those.

 

Kate: Tell you what. I'll front you the other $60 to go buy yourself a fab pair of 7 Jeans...or I'm even willing to go so far to pony up the whole $175 for you to have a pair of True Religions. Too much for jeans? Maybe so...but let's be clear. They have actual pockets. And actual stitching. And the most important part. They really do make your ass look awesome. And for that amount of money, they better...

And now it's time for MommyLand to weigh in on PajamaJeans.

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010