April Finding the Funny and Huge Chobani Giveaway!

Welcome to April's Finding the Funny! Before we start sharing our funny posts, we have a (huge) giveaway!

My Parenting Victory (and a HUGE giveaway)!

My Yogurt Eaters

Bedtime.  A struggle, to put it mildly in my home, and I'm sure in many of yours.  Most nights I feel as though I'm going into battle against an adversary equipped with the latest technological advances, while I have only a basket of blueberries.  

But last night I decided to take back the power.

I explained the rules. Bedtime was at 9 pm sharp.  They could have as many stories as they wanted if they got their bath done, pj's on and teeth brushed quickly.  I would set a timer, and when it beeped at 9 pm, it was lights out.

They seemed to get it.  They loved the idea of having as many stories as possible if they moved quickly, which they did. Both got 3 stories each, with me reading to Mr. R and the Hubs to Lady A.  When the buzzer rang, there was minimal protest -- far less than I expected.  Within minutes they had their fill of hugs and kisses and were tucked into bed.  

IT WORKED!  Victory was mine!  I was proud of myself for not caving, and of them for cooperating.  A system is born!  From now on, hopefully bedtime will be as easy as it is to get them to eat their morning yogurt!

Raising kids isn’t easy, but Chobani Champions is all about celebrating the little victories in parenting. Together with Chobani, we wanna make YOU a winner.

Enter below to win 1 GRAND PRIZE* of a year’s supply of Chobani and Chobani Champions. Yep, a year’s supply of that delicious, nutritious, protein-packed parenting victory known as Chobani greek yogurt. Our grand prize winner will build a custom case for themselves to be delivered to their doorstep monthly, including 1 case of assorted Champions Flavors, 1 case of assorted Chobani Flavors and a bonus case of either Champions tubes, Chobani Bite or Chobani 32 oz cooking sizes. Every month for a YEAR!* 10 Runners-up will receive one case of Champions Tubes delivered to their doors! Giveaway begins April 2 and ends at midnight April 8. Chobani is gettin' social to find the good, the bad, the ugly… and a REAL taste of life with kids. Join in on the convo!

Follow Chobani at: @Champions on Twitter Chobani Champion's on Facebook @ChobaniChampions on Instagram Join all of us on twitter for #spikedpunch Sunday night, April 7 from 9-10pm EST. Enjoy the party and a chance to win 1 of 2 cases of Chobani tubes! *Giveaway open to residents of the United States only. Grand prize winner will choose from products available at http://chobani.com/products/ a Rafflecopter giveaway

It's Finding the Funny Time!

Meet the Hosts Anna @ My Life and Kids Kelley @ Kelley's Break Room Robyn @ Hollow Tree Ventures Kerry @ HouseTalkN Julie @ I Like Beer and Babies Keesha @ Mom's New Stage Meredith @ The Mom of the Year Anna @ Random Handprints Ellen and Erin @ Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms Toulouse @ Toulouse and Tonic

The Rules

Link up an old or new funny post. Link up as many times as you want (we're serious.) The party is open until Friday at midnight. The earlier you link up, the more clicks you'll get. Click around and meet the other funny bloggers that are linking up. Follow the Finding the Funny Pinterest board. We'll all be pinning our favorites throughout the month. We don't ask you to link back to us or include a button on your blog, but we do ask you to send out a tweet or post about the party on your Facebook page. Be sure to use #findingthefunny.

15 Memories of a Girl Who Danced in the 80s

1.  Lynn Stanford's Music for Ballet Class, which to this day sends my soul soaring.

2.  Stirrup tights, the awkward older sister of convertible tights.

3.  The Jane Fonda wrestling-style leotard with a striped tank underneath that I wore to jazz class.

4.  A Very Young Dancer, which I read with awe and reverence, every chance I got.

3.  Leg warmers, at least one pair, were a must!

4.  The F movies - Flashdance, Fame, Footloose, Fast Forward, in addition to, of course, Stayin' Alive, White Nights, Dirty Dancing, Breakin' and Beat Street.

5.  The day I got my bubble gum pink Capezio pointe shoes in Pavlova.  The other models were Nicolini, Ultimo and Contempora, oh yeah, and Duro-Toe.  

6.  My jazz teacher who taught the whole class in heels.  And I thought she was the coolest woman on the planet. 

7.  Hiking my leotard or trunks (TRUNKS!) higher than my hipbones, often by running an elastic, belt or bandana underneath and fastening/tying it in front.  

A CHORUS LINE, Nicole Fosse (gray leotard, left of center),
 Michelle Johnston (foreground, center), 1985. ©Columbia Pictures

8.  Shiny EVERYTHING!

9.  Making myself a Flashdance-style, i.e., cut to reveal one shoulder, shirt, yes, for jazz class.

10.  The more the bounce the better the stretch.  Wow!

11.  The Solid Gold Dancers.  That jazz-hand isolation series.  Finishing the number coiled around some dude's ankle.  I wanted this for myself.  Really.  I know.  Shut up!

12.  It seemed possible to be in every single dance movie, like Cynthia Rhodes.

13.  Gelsey Kirkland.  So beautiful, but um, yeah. . .

14. White Capezio jazz shoes. And like ballet slippers, no split sole, so if you didn't have any feet, you were in trouble! Then black jazz shoes came on the scene - how rebellious!

15.  Having runs and holes in your tights, like a Harvey Edwards poster, was cool - it meant you were truly a dedicated and suffering  artist.

A Frenemy Named Siri

I got an Iphone for Christmas.  Finally I didn't have to be embarrassed about taking my phone out at a restaurant dinner party.  Finally, I would be able to show people more photos of my kids than anyone thought possible.  Finally, I could check e-mail in the car (only after parking) of course.  

And finally, I had my own personal assistant. I had Siri.

The first time I put Siri to use was en route to my friend's naked spa birthday party between Christmas and New Year's.  I had checked directions the old fashioned way, on my laptop, and then copied them down on paper because my laptop isn't connected to a printer.  Don't hate.  Writing helped me get the directions in my Swiss cheese slice of a brain.  

Still, I thought it would be lovely to have the added reassurance of turn-by-turn GPS-informed guidance.  I'm not a confident highway driver - the only thing more unnerving to me would be chowing down on a platter of week old sushi, or running sprints in Lady Gaga heels.  I wanted -- needed-- all the help I could get.

I got in my car, and looked up the spa.  Dutifully, Siri found it, and I commandeered her to give me driving directions.  She was on point getting me out of my neighborhood and onto Lake Shore Drive.  Her smooth, yet robotic voice made me feel like I had my own personal tour guide. I had arrived, baby.  

But then on I-55, things began to go so very WRONG! I knew I was supposed to take the exit onto I-94, but Siri directed me to continue toward St. Louis.  

WTF, Siri?!  I thought you had my back! 

I tried to stuff my e-genie back in her bottle but she was fiercely determined to remain in the world and to be a pain in my ass. I tapped wildly on the phone, trying to reprogram her, to redirect her, to make her worthy of my trust again, but it quickly became clear that I had to choose between getting Siri in sync with my needs, or wrecking my car.  I don't know what Hubs would have done if the gift he'd given me not five days ago had caused the untimely death of his stupid, can't-drive-for-shit, multi-tasking wife.  

Siri directed me off the highway at every single exit.  When I finally parted ways with I-94, she persistently, in a tone that I heard as not only exasperated, but downright hostile, told me to turn around.  I felt mocked and betrayed.  

I wanted Siri defenestrated, as one of my former bratty private-school students had done with her decidedly unworthy phone circa 2001. My I-phone had become I-backseat driver. How could I shut this bitch up?!  I was at once alone and a dysfunctional couple arguing all the way to their destination.

I continued following my notes and praying that I wasn't going to wind up in Iowa. My first Iphone journey had been an abysmal failure.  

When I got to the spa, I saw what had gone so horribly wrong.

Siri had been directing me to the King's Health Spa in Downer's Grove, not King Spa and Sauna in Niles. God bless America, I had touched the wrong location.  It was all my fault. 

After that things got a little better. I fired Siri from navigating long drives and hired Google Maps.  Siri was now relegated to being my secretary -- her sole function making phone calls in the car.

Usually she was great.  I loved saying "Raina Jenks Mobile!" or "Call Tom Cell" and getting hooked up. The kids giggled at these requests and chanted, "Raina Jenkins mobile!  Raina Jenkins mobile!"  But every now and then Siri demonstrated that she was in serious need of an ear candling session.  And as every mom knows, car time is some of the most precious time around.  When I lost valuable time interpreting for Idiot Siri I was PISSED. And her patronizing and calm was beyond irritating.

Asking for Tina Jacobs Connor was met with this snippy reply:  

Like a bitchy teen forced to shop at the mall with her mother, I repeated my request, caustically enunciating every syllable.  I said, "Ti-NA Ja-COBS Con-NOR."

Siri replied with this:

"I SAID TI-NA JA-COBS CON-NOR," I shouted, practically panting with rage.

Siri came right back at me with this:

I know you did not just get all patronizing on me!  Oh, Hell no, Siri!  I began hurling profanities at her (yes, at a machine), before dialing the number myself. 

A few days later I tried again. "Christine Williams," I said, as clearly as possible.

"Do you mean Chrissy Williams?" Siri asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Dialing," Siri replied.  She paused slightly before adding cheekily, "Keesha, what would you do without me?"

God only knows, Siri.  God only knows.  

No One Loves Talking Shit Like I Do!

About six weeks ago, Mr. R hopped out of the car, and ahead of me and his sister, dashed across the grassy area between curb and sidewalk, and into school.  Noticing nothing out of the ordinary, I deposited him and Lady A in their respective classrooms, got them settled and kissed them good-bye before setting off for a day of teaching.  

Just as I got to work my phone rang.  I looked down at the number.  It was his school.  No good announcements ever follow a phone call from your kid's school.  Just to mix it up a little, why can't they ever call to say, "Just wanted to tell you that your child drew a picture today worthy of a budding Picasso! Now go get yourself a glass of champagne to celebrate!"  

"Um, Keesha,"  said Ms. J, one of his teachers. "Mr. R stepped in dog poop.  And while he was sitting down for group time, he crossed his legs and got it all over his pants."

Oh, shit, I almost said.   

"Also, his box of spare clothes is empty, and we don't keep clothes for his class, so he is wearing a pair of shorts we dug up, and his socks." Ms. J, said matter-of-factly.  " We put all his stuff in a bag. He's going to need some more clothes."   I was sure what she wanted to say was Lady, how the hell you gon' bring into the school a boy whose shoes were laquered in shit without noticing anything?  And make us clean it up? 

How the hell was I going to do that?!  Talk about being up shit's creek without a paddle. "Um, okay, I just got to work," I stammered. "I'll call my mom, and see if she can bring him some pants and shoes from home."

Luckily, my mom came to the rescue, winning the Grandmother of the Year Award by a landslide.  She later confessed that after digging poop out of the grooves of Mr. R's boots, she'd lost her appetite for the day.  "Now there's a diet plan," she quipped. 

As a mom I felt like a negligent asshole for forgetting to bring back spare clothes after washing them for winter break. I was pissed that "they" hadn't reminded me personally -- e-newsletters didn't count. I felt abundantly stupid for letting Mr. R scamper across the grass without checking first.  And I wanted to get all Braveheart on the douchebag who couldn't be bothered to clean up after his dog.  I longed to launch hundreds of flaming sacks of shit at his windows.  

I don't have a dog, but I know that if I had one, I would be religious about picking up my dog's poop.  I mean, how hard can it be?  You leave the house with the intention of walking your dog, right?  No one suddenly finds herself outside with some dog on a leash, thinking, "Gosh, now what happens? Maybe this pup and I are supposed to set up a bikini car wash?"  

The "forgot my baggies, paper towels, pooper scooper, special glove, or whatever" is complete dogshit.  If you forget, figure something else out, for the love of God. And why do people think that rain gives them a free pass?  Hello?!

Which brings me to the heart of this post.  The two kinds of people in the world applies to more than just those who pick up after their dogs and those who leave the world a poop minefield for the rest of us.  There are people who take everything very seriously, and those who are more, let's say, relaxed.  

In other words, there are people who care and those who don't give a shit.  

Here are 12 of my favorite ways to finish the complex sentence that begins with:   

There are two types of people in the world:  

1.    those who always, always park conscientiously, paying attention to other cars and/or distance from the curb, and those who park like they just had a Nyquil-tini.

2.    those (men) who want you to believe they've got a 20 pound turkey between their legs, and those who make room for others on public transportation.

3.    those who text in theaters or have full-voice conversations at art galleries, and those who understand that they could draw more attention to themselves only by lighting a torch and singing an operatic version of "Dick in a Box."

4.    those parents (true story) who actually turn off the Academy Awards when their about-to-meltdown kid asks to watch Caillou, and those who would mutter, "F--k that!" under their breath, and "redirect" Little Soandso to another activity. (Guess what I wish I'd picked).

5.    those parents who remain reasonably on watch at the playground, and those who never seem to notice that their children are in total mean girl/thug mode with other kids.  

6.    those who call/text regularly when they are running late, and apologize profusely, and those who were surely at one time proclaimed the second coming, because the world waits for them.  

7.    those who sit on curbs or subway steps or platforms, and those who would rather just spray themselves with a bubonic plague sample and call it a day.  

8.    those who, even with a long line behind them, take so long in the stall you wonder if they're redesigning the Sistene Chapel, and those who are in and out in a matter of seconds. AND... those who leave the seat neat and clean and those who get all fire hose when they pee.  

9.    those who weigh every word very carefully, thinking about every interpretation possible, trying never to offend, and those who always seem to have a foul case of verbal diarrhea.  

10.  those who know exactly how much money is in their bank account, and those who are just-fine-thank-you with a ballpark figure.  

11.  those who get into fights with friend's friends on Facebook, and those who can take a deep breath, pray for our country, and go on with their lives.  (Sometimes not giving a shizz is good!)

12.   those who write snarky, ranty blog posts about everything that bugs them, and those who couldn't care less. 

Wink, wink.  What's on YOUR two kinds of people in the world list?

How'd ya like to de poop these babies?
 Looks fun, right?

Dear Best Friend's Hubby

Dear Best Friend's Hubby:

Hi!  It's me, your wife's bestie.  I feel like things have gotten a little aaaawk-ward.  You and I need a little come to Jesus moment. 

I'll admit that I do know a lot about you.  I know things that should be private, that are none of my blanking business, but are part of my world because they concern my BFF.  From what I can tell, I worry you.  I might even piss you off a little.

I can see it in the way you keep your distance from me and the way you handle me with kid gloves. You're concerned that the second something goes down, your wife would trample a kitten to get to me on the phone.  Do you think I'm some kind of she-devil who roils your wife into a frenzy about her no-good husband? 

Really, it's not like that at all. I only foam at the mouth when someone finishes something in the fridge and forgets to write it down on the grocery list, and I keep my trademarked set of Castrating Bitch! knives in a special locked box in the back of my lingerie drawer.  

Seriously, though, I'm not going to lie.  I do know a lot about you.  I know the sweet things you do and say.  I know what you do and don't do around the house.  Good and bad, I know how you make my friend feel.  And as far as THAT (you know what I'm talking about) goes, your wife and I have had some conversations that make the Sex and the City girls look like June Cleaver's bridge club.

That's all I'm going to say about that.  

And, you know what?  With all I know, I think you mean well. You're a good guy, with qualities both wonderful and terrible.  I know how difficult it can be to be married.  And I really know how tough it is to be married and have the responsibility of little kids, not to mention maintaining a career and a home.  I am objective enough to know I am only getting one side of the story. Even though I love my friend so much, I'd submit to the sheer torture of a three way with NRA spokesperson, Wayne La Pierre, and Carrot Top, I know she isn't perfect.  No matter how much I have her back, I believe in the immortal words of Lynn Collins, re-mastered by Rob Base, that, "it takes two to make a thing go right."

Believe it or not, I actually like you. When we have hung out together, it's been fun. 

I also know that at one point -- and often you still do -- you made my friend dizzyingly, dazzling happy. So happy that she chose you to marry and to be the father of her children.  That says a lot.

So why then, you wonder, do we engage in epic man-bashing sessions, bitching about our husbands all the effing time? 

First of all, don't flatter yourself.  We are women.  We have a lot to talk about, besides you, sir. Our day, the kids, things we need to buy, our burgeoning to-do lists, how that creme bruleé we inhaled might as well have been slathered on our buttocks -- the list goes on.  

But when we do vent, we need to know if we are being unreasonable, if other hubbies do the same thing, and how to confront it or how to move on.  Contrary to what you may think, suffering in silence is not strength. It is emotionally healthy to talk with other people in the same boat, as long it doesn't become semi-pro whining.  

You boys are really missing out. Why can't you talk about your relationship issues with each other? They've got to be on your mind, so why is it so hard for you to have that kind of convo with your friends? I know I'm no cream puff to live with, and I would expect some honest venting about me.  I really would.  Getting perspective from other emotionally intelligent (this is key) friends is a good thing.  Along with dresses and not having hair sprouting from my face, the ability to confide in and to co-soul-search with my girlfriends is one reason I'm lucky to be a woman. (PMS and riding the cotton pony not so much, but you don't want to know about that anyway.) 

So please stop worrying about what I think about you. It's silly. All I want is for you and my gal-pal to be happy.  I know you love my bestie madly and I don't blame you for each and every problem I hear about.  We're all trying to cope with this time in our lives the best way we know how.

And dude, please. You know a ton of stuff about me as well, and you don't see me skulking about, do you?

Sincerely,

Your Wife's Best Friend

10 Movie Remakes for Moms (and Dads)

Voodoo Is the New Vampire Giveaway

I'll admit to seeing Braveheart and Gladiator almost as many times as The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles (I was an eighties teen, so this REALLY means something). 

No one appreciates a revenge story better than I do, which is why I fell so hard for Bruce Elgin's Voodootown series.  The tales of protection and comeuppance are fantastically satisfying.  I've never been a big fan of the occult, but Mr. Elgin and the folks over at Grasshorse Studios have gotten me to walk happily into the underworld.  And even though I completely understand that it doesn't quite fit,  I'm longing for a mom version.  I mean how delicious would it be to have voodoo dolls throttle that horrible person who keeps shooting mothers and children dirty looks on an airplane or at a restaurant?  How satiated would you feel reading about  that Mean mom at the playground/school/ballet getting her just due? 

Satiated?  That sounds very vampirish.  And I am sick of vampires. They are sooooo over.  

According to author Bruce Elgin and the fine folks at Grasshorse Studios, an award-winning animation firm, voodoo is the new vampire, and I agree. For about the same price it would cost you to order up a crap vampire movie in which the lead actors have both porcelain skin and porcelain emotions, you can own two episodes of the leagues more stimulating Voodootown series.

This brand new concept in young adult fiction is both unique and engaging. Our teen protagonists, troubled in the usual ways, try to fit in, make friends, and keep away from enemies, all the while shadowed by their stuffed familiars...voodoo dolls with special powers who settle human-world scores by night in the underground world of Voodootown. 

The latest episode in the series, Episode 6, "Tattered," is available this week for free download through Amazon. So don't take our word for it, read for yourself. 

We know you'll be hooked, and like the stitches-and-seams super dolls that watch over the teen characters in Elgin’s engrossing serial, we're here to help you out. Eight bloggers who have enjoyed a good young adult novel or two in their day, have gotten together to bring you a Voodootown Giveaway. 

A Grand Prize winner will net a $50 Amazon gift card, which, obviously, they’duse to buy up every single Voodootown ebook BUT WHY DO THAT WHEN YOU COULD WINTHE WHOLE SHEBANG? Yes, in addition to the $50 Amazon gift card, the Grand Prize winner will get a free copy of each of the currently available ebooks, from "Episode 1, Schooled," through the latest ebook, "Episode 6, Tattered." The enormity of this generosity boggles the mind.

BUT THERE’S MORE.

The Grand Prize winner (there will be only one) will also get a limited edition Voodootown t-shirt.Clothes off our back, that’s how far we’d go for you, readers.

Eight other runners-up, one for each of the bloggers helping to promote this giveaway, will win a copy of the very first Voodootown ebook, "Episode 1, Schooled," as well as a limited edition Voodootownt-shirt.

Will wonders never cease? Actually they will. Enter today through Friday, March 22 when this promotion ends. You'll have until midnight on March 22, when theRafflecopter sign-up below will shut down. Winners will be announced later that day on Ninja Mom Blog.

Get on it, kids. You just need to leave a comment to enter, posting the name you’d want for your very own voodoo doll protector. The rest of the entry options are optional, but each will give you a greaterchance to win.

Remember: The promotion ends in one week. Until then, here’shoping no one sticks a pin in your voodoo doll.

a Rafflecopter giveaway