Rantings of a Dissatisfied Customer

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I could spit nails right now. Or fire. Or nails and fire.

When I was a teenager I had an after school job at a national pizza joint. The job was the pits but I did get to work with my best friend so there was one silver lining. We were told repeatedly that the customer is always right. It was drilled into our little teenage brains. You wouldn’t believe how furious some people would get over a fuck up in their dinner order. The whole place was run by kids, what did they expect? And while a dissatisfied customer would be spewing venom in our faces, we’d have to smile, take it, and apologize profusely. Refunds? Sure. Free Pizza? Constantly. Anything to make the customer happy. Because the customer is always right.

Unless you are Toys”R”Us.

On Cyber Monday I sat in front of my computer in yoga pants and a 10-year-old Ani DiFranco t-shirt, steaming hot coffee in hand, clicking all over the interweb getting deals for the multitudes of children I have in my life. My sons, nieces, and nephews would have that awesome shock-and-awe on Christmas morning, and I performed all this magic in the comfort of my own home. It was lovely.

Now I’m sorting through confirmation emails and deliveries. Sure, I still have some shopping to do, but the big stuff had been taken care of. Until I received this e-mail from Toys”R”Us this morning.

toyrusblows

My first thought was, “Well, that blows.” and my second thought was, “I’ll just cancel the order and buy these things somewhere else.” I mean, what’s the point if they get here on January 9th? These are Christmas gifts. Shit, January 9th wouldn’t even make them New Years gifts, if there was such a thing.

So I called Toys”R”Us to cancel my order and that’s when I got the biggest shock… you can’t cancel an order with Toys”R”Us.

Wait? What?

Yup, you read that right.

When you place an order with Toy”R”Us, you have a 45 minute window after the placement of the order to cancel. After that, you CANNOT CANCEL. Even if they can’t fulfill the order, YOU can’t cancel.

In this digital age we live in, Toys”R”Us has managed to make themselves the Fred Flintstone of the internet. By this comparative scale it would make Amazon the freaking Jetsons. With Amazon, my Cyber Monday orders arrived on my doorstep Tuesday afternoon… and I didn’t even pay for shipping.

I was told that my only cause of action is to wait until January 9th for them to cancel the order OR if the order ships before then (they don’t even know if it will) I can return the items to my nearest Toys”R”Us store. Doesn’t that kinda defeat the purpose of Cyber Monday??

The scary part was, the customer service agent I spoke to said she’s been having this same conversation quite a bit. Lovely to know I’m not the only person getting shafted by Toys”R”Us, but still completely ass backward.

So THANK YOU Toys”R”Us! Thank you for your ridiculous policy which proves that you couldn’t give a shit about your customers. Thank you for running specials on Cyber Monday without knowing if you could honor the deal, thus tying my hands and forcing me to buy these gifts twice.

You have now given me an excuse to never shop with you again.

Good riddance.

 

Santa is Greater Than Everything

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NOOOO!

“You’re not Santa… you smell of beef and cheese… you sit on a throne of lies.”

 

This past June I was driving by the mall with my preschooler….

“Hey Mom,” he said, “Know who lives there?”

Oh no, not this again, “Calvin Klein, J Crew, Macy’s…”, but I knew what he was going to say…

“Nope, Santa Claus! Santa lives there! I sat on his lap with Grandma, remember? We brought you a picture. He promised me the toys I wanted,” I snickered, “Oh he did, did he?” but the 4-year-old was steadfast, “Yup, and he was right, I got all the stuffs.”

Ugh, way to set the bar. Because Santa is greater than everything.

He was right, Santa got him all the stuffs – which we all know is secret holiday code for, mom and dad broke the bank. But beyond that, it’s amazing that he, his brothers, and his cousins, were able to celebrate the joy and wonder that is the holiday season.

Once you have kids it becomes even more important for it to be all about them. Making sure they are taken care of mentally and physically is what we do as loving parents to the best of our ability all year round. But to a 4-year-old, holidays are all about the “stuffs” as he puts it so eloquently.

The craziest party of the holiday situation is that I am Jewish and I’ve married a Roman Catholic. We are the epitome of what a mixed faith marriage is. Our kids are being raised Jewish, because I am a Jew and the Jewish faith recognizes my Jewish upbringing no matter what the faith of my spouse, but we also celebrate the large Catholic holidays together, as a family, because we love and respect each other and our kids should be educated in the ways of our religion from both sides.

Because Christmas is a part of our holiday tradition, our kids don’t usually get the “good stuffs” for Hanukkah. The miracle of Hanukkah around here usually yields 8 nights of socks, underwear, and school supplies. Last year we tried to spice it up with iTunes credits and video games, but we played it all wrong as we hid the cards in shirts and dress pants. I know, Santa would have flown to the house with his reindeer in tow and bestowed gifts like a rapper making it rain at a titty bar.

We screwed that up royally.

What we did was more like Hanukkah Harry. And Hanukkah Harry ain’t nothin’ if you’re not Jon Lovitz with a thin gray beard.

Hey, we tried. But try as we might getting the kids pumped about Hanukkah the way they were about Christmas was just a joke.

“Look, kids, we had oil that was only supposed to last for 1 day but instead burned for 8 brilliant nights!”

“But Mommy, you just helped us hang a huge beautiful tree with halogen lights that will last longer than you. And they twinkle on and off and they have magical color changing proprieties because they are made with fiber-optics!”

The kids are right, Eat that Maccabees. I was completely smitten with my children’s reaction to the holiday season. Who cares if Santa kicks everyone’s ass? He does. He really, really, does. But then, the unthinkable happened.

My 11-year-old nephew started to ask the holiday question that every parent dreads… “Is Santa real?” Initially, his parents started out with the legit, parental answers, ” Of course he’s real. You get the toys don’t you? You told him what you wanted.”

But nephew was too old for that shit this year, and he wasn’t about to back down. He hounded and hounded and mentally broke his mother who was pregnant with her third child and finally had nothing else to say but, “Okay, you really wanna know? No, Santa Claus is not real. Your Father and I leave those presents for you. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?”

Come to find out, my nephew was not happy. He couldn’t believe he’d been scammed and lied to all those years. He wanted to get to the bottom of this shit and promptly Face-timed his Grandparents (my in-laws). When they answered that call they found a sobbing 11-year-old yelling at them…

“How could you?” he shirked,

“How could we what?” the poor Grandparents had no idea my nephew had been let in on the big adult lie that is Santa Claus.

“How could you make me sit on a complete strangers lap and tell him all the toys I wanted? He could have been a crazy man, a psycho? And you made me tell him …. secrets.”

Lighting some candles and getting some socks seems a lot less innocuous now.

The Time Bandit and Blowing Out Candles

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I made the insane 50 yard trek to the mailbox the other day and collected the shitstorm of mail that awaited for me. I. Hate. The. Mail. Everything I really need to know, I find out electronically nowadays. Kim K’s naked again… yup. Light bill is due… yup. Babies born, marriages started, marriages ended… I got you interweb. Thank you for being the most amazing form of paperless currency in my life. No mess, no stress. Yay me.

So, back to my shitton of mail: American Girl catalog… no girls here, Pottery Barn… you’re 10 years late on my income, Tax Collector???? What? I’m reading this shit. Oh, wow, it’s time to renew my registration… really? Wonder why? Then I looked at the date, and I realized that my birthday is less than 5 days away. What.The.Fuck?

My birthday? It feels like we just celebrated that? If memory serves we went to that yummy Japanese teppanyaki place. You know, the one where they cook in front of you on the table? And the kids were super adorable and well-behaved that night. The 3-year-old shared fried rice with me, he had just learned to use chopsticks too, pretty well I might add. The 9-year-old ate EVERYTHING on his plate, including scallops. And the baby? What did the baby do? Hmm, why can’t I remember? OMG, because I was still pregnant. The last time I celebrated my birthday I was STILL PREGNANT!

That’s how fast it all goes. Whoosh, a year! Over. Leaving me sitting here to scratch my head at the sheer speed of it all. Mind. Blown. I really have nothing against ageing or birthdays, as far as I’m concerned getting older is much better than the alternative… being dead. Yet, it’s so hard to believe that a year ago we weren’t yet a party of 5, because I feel like we’ve been our completed family forever, but the time bandit and that damn calendar has reminded my old brain that it’s wrong.

Sometimes, on a Sunday afternoon, when my kids are being utterly ridiculous with their, “I’m bored,” and their, “There is nothing TO DO!” bullshit, I think to myself, ” I didn’t sign on for this,” but I did. I really, truly did, I just hadn’t read the full job description when I accepted the position.

So this year, when I blow out my birthday candles I’m going to wish for the ability to breathe in the good things, the little things they do that make me proud and happy, joyous and in awe of their little souls, and the ability to cast away the annoying parts, the stupid behavior they pull when they are hungry or tired or just mad. Just maybe, maybe, if I can do those things I won’t be as surprised when the County tax collector reminds me of my birthday next year.

Most importantly I’m giving myself a fabulous gift this year. The gift of self forgiveness. I am my worst critic, and I really need to cut that shit out because it only distracts me from enjoying my life. No one gets all of this mom-shit right all of the time. That’s just a fact I have to keep reminding myself of.

Wonder where my birthday dinner will be this year?

I really don’t feel like cooking.

Holiday Hysteria

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It happens every year.

As the calendar tumbles its way into November I start to have little, baby panic attacks with every mention of the yuletide season. That Hershey’s kiss commercial with the little kisses shaking like bells makes me shake. The sight of Salvation Army bell-ringers makes me think less of Phoebe Buffay (she once fought for the coveted bell-ringing corner) and more of every small detail hiding on my to-do list. The party invites, the meal planning, the gift giving, the teacher gifts, the tips, the details of my middle child’s birthday extravaganza, make me break into a cold fucking sweat.

This year is going to be different.

This year is going to be fun.

I am not going to buy into the holiday hysteria that corporate America is forcing down my double okay, fine, triple chin. I refuse to spend another holiday season like Clark Griswold.

I won’t do it.

Do you want to know why? Because every year, I stress and I cringe and I worry, and eventually, IT ALL GETS DONE ANYWAY! What’s the point of buying into the hysteria? My kids have never gone without, my family hasn’t ever missed out on the worthy and beautiful gift of hilarious memories and real love. They get it all! I get all of it done, and I won’t have their memories be of mommy, hair in curlers and a robe, running around like a lunatic because she doesn’t have red and green swirled taper candles. They get all the things and usually they still want more. That’s the megalomania that got us into this mess in the first place. “Whomever dies with the most toys wins,” and they play with it for 5 damn minutes and then they forget they even wanted it in the first place. If I get a hug or a thank you that’s an awesome bonus, and my kids aren’t even huge, ungrateful, assholes. I’ve definitely seen much worse, but they are. just. kids. This year I will keep my expectations of their happiness through material things very low.

We all have that Facebook friend who, right at this very minute, is bragging that she already has all of her holiday shopping done. I always laugh when I see these posts because not only does homegirl have to now come up with a place to hide her children’s goodies for the next 2 months, she also will find that 1 week before Christmas one of her kids will come to her with an updated Christmas list. Ruh Roh, news flash… you’re never “done” Christmas shopping. Not until December 26th anyway.

Corporate America will continue to play to our fears as long as we let them. Black Friday is the perfect example of our holiday hysteria realized. They play on your fear of missing out. The idea that people will leave their Thanksgiving tables, full of booze and triptafen, in order to get “deals” that don’t really exist is the biggest mind fuck in the universe, and this year will be no different. The day after Thanksgiving, I’ll be eating turkey and waffles in my pajamas while I watch normally sane individuals fight over ugly Christmas sweaters and gaming consoles on the news. Let’s not even think about he poor retail workers who have to leave their families to run a pretzel store in the mall so Aunt Edna can have more subsistence to knock-a-bitch-out who tries to take her marked down TiVo.

In the hoopla that is “the need to have all the things” we’ve lost the message of the holiday season, the real message. As someone who lives in a mixed faith household I often cringe when I hear people say that they refuse to answer holiday greetings that don’t mirror their own beliefs. The holiday season is just a time to magnify what we all should be preaching everyday, “Kindness to your fellow-man!” And if you aren’t someone who talks about that on the daily, then I’m pretty sure no material objects will ever really give you what you’re looking for. Every religion has this as their primary teaching, especially around the holidays, and if you think I’m going to snub my nose at someone because they greet me with “Happy Kwanza” as opposed to “Happy Hanukkah” or “Merry Christmas” you are sadly mistaken. I’ll just let my heart swell with the fact that someone thought to greet me in the first place, because we all need it. I most definitely need it because the majority of my day is spent talking to an individual who cannot yet talk back. We need to feel that connection that is the real meaning of the holidays, and I have to say, writing this down, throwing my middle finger up at all the material shit that everywhere I turn makes me feel like less of a mom, has been really cathartic.

I feel better already.

Bring on the holidays!

Ode to the High School Acquaintance I’ve Already Unfriended On Facebook who Keeps Friend Requesting me

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You again?

Back in High School, you never gave me the time of day,

That is fine, actually, better than okay,

I moved, and found myself very far away,

I barely remember you.

When I received your first friend request I was in a giving mood,

The sun shined on a dog’s ass that day, my kids ate all their food,

And the world was pretty good,

Harmonious.

You entered into my circle, our in-common was the past,

But then I saw the drivel you post,

Wasting my time, wasting your time,

How long would this shit last?

Forever.

Anger and violence, bitterness and revolt, was all your timeline showed,

Conspiracy theories, ridiculous videos, pictures of scantily clad hoes,

You were relentless and argumentative, condescending and strange,

So I hit the unfriend button and went on with my day.

Virtual freedom.

Hours passed, then days, then months, maybe a year.

Hadn’t even thought of you, your ranting and your fears.

Then today, the pop up came… “you have a new friend request,”

I looked up, and saw your name,

And laughed my fucking ass off as I hit decline.

Peace out.

It’s the Most Threatening Time of the Year

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As a mom, I’m not one for empty threats. I’m not overly fond of threatening my kids at all, but in my world, when all else fails, threats work. After 4.8 billion times of making the same request to an audience that’s chosen to ignore you, eventually you’ll start chucking anything out there. “If you don’t pick up your toys I’ll throw them all away.” The problem with that threat is, it’s usually an empty one, which you realize when you’re astute and stubborn child says, “Fine, I was tired of these toys anyway.” That’s when it dawns on you how much time, energy and money it will cost to follow through on that threat and you change your tune. Now your spawn has you by the balls, and they know it. I learned this early on, when I only had one child. Now I only make threats I’m damn sure to follow through on.

At least I thought I did.

While getting ready for school this morning the 3-year-old was being his normal,willful, 3-year-old self.

“Okay, let’s get dressed,” I repeated once, then twice, then many, many more times, over and over again before he finally muttered, “I not listening to you.” That was plainly obvious. That’s when I whipped out the big guns. SANTA threats. “You know who really doesn’t like when little boys don’t listen?” I answered in a very serious tone… “Santa.” His name hung in air as I spoke it in a type of whisper, almost like Harry Potter speaking the name of Albus Dumbledore… with reverence. The monkey’s eyes grew very wide. That little shit was listening now. Gotcha. “Yeah, Santa is watching everything you do,” I continued, “and if you aren’t being good, and listening to Mommy and Daddy… {here it comes, the kicker} he’ll give you a lump of coal!” The 3-year-old looked relieved? {Really? What?} “Yeah, Cole doesn’t like to listen either.”

Oh shit.

HE THINKS I’M TALKING ABOUT HIS FRIEND FROM SCHOOL.

“No, not Cole your friend, a lump of coal,” I tried to clarify, failing miserably. “What’s a lump of coal?” he said curiously.

And there you have it, the emptiest threat of all! A threat he doesn’t understand.

As I started to think about how to explain coal to a 3-year-old I found myself laughing. Sure, coal is mined and widely used here in the United States but we live in Florida. You don’t have coal miners here. Sure, we have charcoal, but that’s not coal. Have I ever even seen an actual lump of coal myself? I just accidentally broke the cardinal rule of dealing with a toddler, “It doesn’t exist if I can’t see it.” This is Mom 101 here and I’m failing like an out-of-state Freshman. I had to come up with something quick to cover my ass. Something he’d understand. Something that would make sense to him as the equivalent of coal, as the anti-gift from the jolly Saint Nick that would leave him spinning in place all day, thinking about how he needs to start listening so he doesn’t get screwed on Christmas morning. It had to be real. It had to be tangible, and it had to be something that wasn’t an empty threat.

“Coal is a brand new iPad without a charger, and no one else’s charger will work either.”

The monkey got really quiet.

“I’m gonna listen from now on, okay Mommy?”

Mission accomplished.

I’m sure this will come back and bite me in the ass when he eventually learns about fossil fuels.