Mama Knows Best

10 Ways to Get Your Slang On

Before my kids became teenagers, I was still using the same worn-out old slang phrases I’d been carting around for years. I’d tell my kids to “chill out” and “stop trippin” when they were “acting up.” If I liked something, it was “cool.” Otherwise, it could be a “bummer.”

I don’t think I’ll ever stop using such tried and true words and phrases. But I’m hip enough to know I’ve gotta keep up with the times. So I’ve updated my slang, thanks to a whole new set of fun slang words and phrases that I’ve learned from my kids.

I’m sure you have an interest in being as hip as I am, so I’ll share with you a beginners list of de rigeur slang. Use these phrases wisely, and you might be elevated to the status of “the cool parent.” Don’t have kids whose friends you want to impress? Use these words and phrases to increase your mystique and make other adults envious of how “tight” (cool) you are.

My Bad: Def. I made a mistake, I recognize that mistake, and I’m sorry.

Who said “sorry” is the hardest word? Who cares? You don’t have to use it anymore. Replace wimpy, whiny “I’m sorry” with “my bad,” and you’ll get automatic r-e-s-p-e-c-t, even in the face of massive screw-ups. Hint for enhanced cred: When you tell someone “my bad,” make sure you indicate yourself by patting your chest with your open hand. That way, they know you know it’s truly YOUR bad and you have the cojones to admit it.

Real Talk: Def. Telling the blunt and honest truth.

This term is often used to differentiate someone who is not only telling the truth, but also stands in stark contrast to those around him or her who are not as straightforward.

Recently, my daughter told me that she wants Obama for President because he’s “on that real talk,” and doesn’t “bulls**t” around like Clinton and McCain.

Jacked Up: Def. Thoroughly messed up.

I love this term. So handy, so useful, so many applications. Hell, for teenagers, anything can be jacked up. . . a too-short haircut, a friend’s unfortunate choice of outfit, the house after that party you held while the parents were gone.

Now think about the possibilities for yourself. Perhaps you owe some taxes this year, even though you’re living paycheck to paycheck? That’s jacked up! Your cell phone fell in the toilet because you’re so busy you can’t even stop to pee? Now your phone’s jacked up. Your kid wrecked the car? Yep. It’s jacked up, too.

Come at Me Sideways: Def. Approaching a person in a disrespectful manner.

One day, my daughter came home from school with a scowl on her face.

“What’s wrong with you?” I innocently asked.

“Dude. I’m just sick of people comin’ at me sideways all the time.”

“Hmmm,” I thought. “Who came at you sideways and how did they do it?”

“This man Tyrell came up to me and told me he heard I was talking to Matt over at JC’s party last weekend. I said ‘don’t come at me sideways with that mess.’ If he’s gonna believe what he hears, he’s got it bent, twisted AND sideways.”

“Okay. Sounds like you took care of him, then.”

“Still, I hate when people come at me sideways with a bunch of mess.”

I think you can see the possibilities for this rich (and somewhat comical) phrase!

Puttin Me on Blast: Def. To call someone out in public.

Have you ever sat in a meeting and had someone point a finger at you because you didn’t do some silly little to-do that was assigned in some endless meeting that generated so many to-dos that you couldn’t keep track and then when the minutes came out, you didn’t actually read them? There you sit, scribbling a meal plan and the groceries you’re going to pick up on the way home, when you’re forced to attention because it’s been made known that you didn’t finish the pie chart or whatever. Now you can take control of the situation by asking the little brown-nosing snitch who ratted you out, “Why you puttin me on blast up here in front of everyone?” This will redirect the attention from you and your (rare) dereliction of duty and onto the person who everyone now will see as a petty little climber who’s willing to step on the backs of his/her colleagues to move up the ladder.

Posted Up: Def. Situated in a certain position

This is NOT like posting up, or being posted up, by an opponent in a basketball game. Take that image out of your head. Picture instead someone taking up a certain space in a certain position. A person can be posted up pretty much anywhere. On the couch, at the dinner table, at your computer.

You can especially be posted up by the front door waiting when your kid breaks curfew.

a Minute: Def. A long time.

The phrase “a minute” is a clever turnabout of meaning, because what the utterer REALLY means is “a long time.” If you haven’t seen someone since last summer, you could say “I haven’t seen you in a minute.” Hint: it sounds better if you say “I AIN’T seen you in a minute.”

I recently had to call my husband’s attention to the fact that he hadn’t done his share of the laundry in “a minute.” He replied that he’d get right on it. . . in “a minute.”

You see just how very useful this phrase can be.

Blowin Up My Phone: Def. Calling a person a lot on their phone.

A few days ago, I was looking for our house phone, which had disappeared from it’s base. I found it upstairs, attached to my older son’s ear.

“Why are you using the house phone? You have a cell phone.”

He covered the mouthpiece. “Naw, though, mom.” He pointed at the house phone. “This girl was blowin up my cell phone. But I need it to text. So we’re talking on this phone.”

I’m sure you’ve had people blowin up your phone before, right? Unfortunately, for adults, the ones blowing up our phones are the people you don’t really want to hear from THAT much: your boss, telemarketers, bill collectors, your kids when they need money.

Beast: Def. A person who excels at something, particularly in sports.

Not only can one BE “a beast,” one can also engage in the act of beasting, as in “He was beastin’ on the court.” This handy word can also be used as an adjective: “That was a beast move.”

In think there are endless possibilities beyond the sports world, as well, because you can really be a beast at anything, can’t you?

“Mom’s a beast on the computer. She’s writing all the time.”

“Dad busted a beast move on them ribs.”

“Obama’s beastin on the campaign trail.”

Hater: Def. A jealous person who gossips and/or down-talks about others.

My daughter is a true aficionado when it comes to the various uses of the word “hater.” According to her, haters are everywhere. Haters who hate. Haters who be hatin. Haters do things like “put your business on blast because they’re jealous” and “come at you sideways with stuff thats none of their business.”

Do you have haters in your life? Turn the tables, put THEM on blast, and ask ‘em “Why you drinkin all that haterade, man?”

Special props (thanks) to my daughter, Quent, for her help with all of the above.

That’s it for now. I hope you’ll be able to find ways to use these words and phrases in your daily conversation. And stay tuned for future updates on more handy slang!

Until then,

Deuces (Goodbye)

Ashley Alexandra Dupre — Aren’t Her 15 Minutes Up Yet?

Andy Warhol once said: “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.”

The internet has guaranteed that, now, maybe not everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes, but everyone sure CAN be. And a young woman named Ms. Ashley Alexandra Dupre was last week’s poster child for Warhol’s famous statement.

Ms. Dupre’s 15 minutes were made possible by Eliot Spitzer, crusading independently wealthy ex-prosecutor turned governor of New York, who spent incredible amounts of money (up to $4,300.00 a pop — no pun intended) on unsafe sex with prostitutes, and, when exposed, took a nose dive right out of a soaring political career.

Given the circumstances, after all, isn’t it just a crap shoot of sorts, which hooker becomes America’s media darling? I guess she just happened to be the most recent.

While common sense says we should all have been (at least primarily) focused on the tragic, self-inflicted downfall of a man who was truly trying, as Governor of New York, to DO THE RIGHT THING, what it all came down to was this: the public really wanted to know exactly whose sex is worth thousands of dollars.

So, last week, as Spitzer was resigning in disgrace, we were all indulging our fascinated curiousity about Spitzer’s most recently commissioned call girl, Ashley Alexandra Dupre, AKA “Kristen” (for whose services Spitzer is reported to have paid $2,200.00). Born Ashley Youmans, her story went viral, and her market price spiked, as quickly as Spitzer fell like a lead balloon from grace.

The whole world could read the makings of a potential B-move drama about the young girl from a broken home who came to New York to be a recording artist, fell in with a pimp, and became a hooker, and THEN, due to her high-class hooker skills (and being in right/wrong place at the right/wrong time), unwittingly became the living, breathing symbol of the professional demise of a high-profile, crusading politician who just wouldn’t keep the snake in its cage.

Because everyone wanted to know exactly what kind of hooker is worth a political career, Ms. Dupre was everywhere. And she quickly capitalized in a big way.

Within two days of her “outing” as Kristen, Ms. Dupre posted two songs she recorded on the music site AmieStreet.com, which sells music for various prices based on demand. And despite the fact that the songs (“What We Want” and “Move Ya Body” — yes, I made myself listen to them) are pretty boring and derivative, they were in high enough demand to command the top price on the site, 98 cents. Her songs were the top two on the Buzzing Songs Today page at Amie Street. I know that put a few dollars in her purse.

Not to mention, Ashley’s MySpace page was getting multimillions of hits. And she’s getting the predictable offers to pose for Penthouse ($1 million — not bad for a working girl covered in tattoos) and other skin mags. Folks even speculated that there could be a book deal in the works, as well. Shudder.

This week, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m yawning. Her 15 minutes should be over by now, right? After all, if my husband, for instance, decided to spend thousands of dollars on Ms. Dupre, who would care? She wouldn’t even get 1 minute. But she won’t go away. And we’re now reduced to profiles of her as club-hopping, coke-sniffing, party girl, and reports about the possibility of her showing up on “Girls Gone Wild.” Is Penthouse still willing to pay $1 million for a cliche? If so, please hurry up and cash her out.

After all, New Jersey is offering us the revived McGreevey scandal to talk about, and it’s so much more titillating (read the link!). In fact, the McGreevey scandal was given new life because Dina Matos McGreevey felt compelled to come forward publicly to empathize with Silda Wall Spitzer, and welcome her to the Betrayed and Humiliated Political Wives Club. Which, in turn, compelled Jim McGreevey’s former driver, in an effort to keep things REAL and expose Matos McGreevey as a hypocrite, to go public about the three-way trysts he claims he used to have with the McGreeveys on Friday nights after dining at TGIFridays, and referred to be the threesome, oh-so-cleverly, as “Friday Night Specials.”

Not to mention, new New York governor David Paterson was not going to be outdone by the outgoing Spitzer. He admitted to having affairs during a time when his marriage was, shall we say, not doing so great. Turnabout is fair play, though, ’cause his wife had an affair, too! Fun for all.

So! We’re on a runaway freight train of sex scandal. Who’s next?!?

Update: I feel sooooo much better now that I got that out of my system!

Valentine’s Day Eve at Mama’s House

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and many of you are probably running around getting gifts to make that special someone feel even more special. Especially you men, since the burden is on you to produce flowers, chocolates, jewelry, or all of the above. And a nice dinner out. Luckily for the sisterhood, we’re doing fine if we just dust off the sexy lingerie and think about actually putting it on.

Seriously, though. . .

Despite all media-driven expectations about gift-giving on Valentine’s Day, anymore it’s typically a pretty low-key affair in our house. The hubby and I don’t spend a lot of undue time or energy on it. Probably because we spend all of our time and money on our kids.

What we usually do is go out to eat together. Which is actually really special, b/c keeping up with our kids’ activities fills up the weekly schedule, making it damn near impossible to sneak a date in most of the time.

The reality is we’ve been married for 17 years now, and I’m lucky to be married to a man who spoils me rotten in all the right ways: he puts up with my moods; he does all the nasty chores like cleaning the bathrooms and washing the cars; and he is ALWAYS the one to go out late at night if there’s a last minute errand that has to be done for the next day (and with three kids this happens with amazing regularity). PLUS he rubs my feet WHENEVER I ask and always picks out great wine for me (even when he thinks it’s too expensive).

In other words, due to his efforts over a sustained period of time, the hubby is now officially off the hook when it comes to Valentine’s Day surprises.

But that’s between the hubby and me — we’re old pros when it comes to making a relationship work.

Now my job is to teach my kids how to make relationships work.

So, this year, I’m much more focused on what my sons are doing for Valentine’s Day. Because, in spite of the highly commercialized aspects of Valentine’s Day, I do believe it’s a good excuse for a young man to practice MAKING A GIRL FEEL SPECIAL. If he has a girl.

In the past, my only function as a mother on Valentine’s Day was to go out and purchase enough Valentine’s Day cards for everyone in whoever’s class for the big card exchange. This year marks the first time I’m getting to apply my mothering skills to Valentine’s Day, by offering my best advice on guidance on navigating the waters of boy-girl relationships.

To begin with, my younger son has a “girlfriend.” The reason I say “girlfriend” is that they’re still in elementary school — so the concept is much more theoretical than practical. Much of their “relationship” is conducted through go-betweens. Although, it’s my understanding that there is much eye contact and smiling that goes on between them, and even the occasional conversation at lunch or recess.

HOWEVER, Ant approached me and asked me if I would pick up a gift for his girl for Valentine’s Day. He sweetly apologized for having to ask me to do it, but pointed out that he has no money and no car and has to be in school all day. What a cutie!

Okay, so we decided that a tasteful box of chocolates would be an appropriate gift. He then mentioned that he would have to talk with her friends about when to get her the gift, since they aren’t allowed to exchange any gifts at school unless they’re bringing something for everybody. I advised him that he should propose to meet her AFTER school and give her the gift. Bingo! See, I told you I give good advice.. .

So I’m presuming the meeting is being arranged. For my part, I went and got a little heart-shaped box of chocolate that comes with a small stuffed teddy bear, and a Valentine’s gift bag with pink tissue paper.

At one point, I realized just exactly how happy and excited Ant’s girl is going to be when she gets her gift. My cynicism about Valentine’s Day eroded just a little in that moment.

Anyway, that was easy compared with my attempts to advise my older son on his Valentine’s Day responsibilities. In fact, this has become quite the battle of wills.

Snacky is currently “talking to” a lovely young lady — pretty, polite, a cheerleader, in the choir. I heartily approve.

Here I need to digress a little on the topic of “talking,” in order to eventually get to my point.

You may have noticed, if you have kids in middle school or high school, that when our budding young adults become interested in each other, they are quickly deemed to be “talking to” each other.

To put it in context: “Yeah, you know Monique? She’s the one Dre talks to.”

What I’ve been able to determine is that when kids are “talking,” they’re in a sort of lower-tier commitment. In the teenage public mind, the two “talkees” are connected, but not yet committed enough to say they’re dating; or that they’re girlfriend-boyfriend. The rules around “talking” are somewhat contradictory. It’s expected that you don’t hit on a guy or girl that you’re friend is “talking to.” However, if you do mess around with someone who’s “talking to” someone else, it is perfectly legitimate to say: “Well, it’s not like they’re going out or anything.”

So back to Valentine’s Day: evidently, the rules about Valentine’s Day gift-giving is unenforceable between kids who are “talking to” each other. While a guy who neglected to give his GIRLFRIEND a Valentine’s Day gift would be up s**t creek without a paddle, a guy who doesn’t get a gift for the girl he’s “talking to” is off the hook.

I found this out when I asked Snacky what he’s going to get the young lady he’s “talking to” for Valentine’s Day. He informed me that she TOLD HIM not to get her anything b/c they’re not actually going out.

Me: “So she just up and said not to get her anything?”

Him: “Well, I asked her if she wanted me to get her anything. And she said no because we’re not going out yet.”

Hmmmmm. . .

Me: “Well, son, I would highly suggest that you don’t take her advice. There is no high school girl who actually doesn’t want to get something for Valentine’s Day.”

Him: “But we’ve only been ‘talking’ for three weeks.”

Me: “So? Get her a token gift.”

Him: “What’s a token gift?”

Woooooow. . .

Me: “A small gift. You know, just to let her know she’s special to you. You do like her, don’t you?” (Yes, I’m the mistress of the guilt trip.)

Him: “Well, duh, I like her. . . that’s why I’m ‘talking to’ her.”

At this point, Quent jumped in with her two cents: “Nobody ever got me anything when we were ‘talking.’ I always told ‘em not to ’cause there’s no way I was going to do anything for them.”

Me: “Thanks for that illuminating advice.”

Quent: “I’m just saying. . .”

So around and around we went. And I have to confess that we are currently at a stalemate. Although I’m feeling a little miffed that my son isn’t taking my advice, I can guarantee you that I’m still planning on winning this battle in the end.

This Mama Loves Obama

I’m on board with Obama — I’m old enough to be a cynic, but smart enough to know when someone’s got it going on. I even find myself digging the quasi-spiritual and somewhat hokey “join the movement” campaign theme. Reminiscent of “keep hope alive. . . “

Yep. Obama’s got people excited, and that includes me. It’ll be a long haul dragging this country back from the precipice of disaster that the Bush administration currently has us dangling over, but Obama is fresh, new and brilliant. I’ll take my chances.

And on top of it all, my emotions run high when I think about the very real possibility that my biracial kids will see the first black United States president elected as they are just beginning to enter adulthood.

In fact, one of them will lose her political virginity this year.  My daughter Quent will be old enough to vote this year, so part of her birthday festivities will be hightailing it to the DMV to register to vote, bringing our family contribution of votes for the Democratic nominee (Obama?!?!) to three.

The Mobile Phone — Mama’s Best Friend

My advice of the day is to get your child a mobile phone. If you haven’t already. That way, when your child is bored in school, she can text her friends or check her Facebook.

Seriously. My policy is this: if they’re old enough to walk home alone, they’re old enough for a cell phone. I don’t even think I need to explain this position. Stay connected.

Here is a perfect example of why mobile phones are mama’s best friend. My daughter and a few of her peeps went to a party last night. This party was held at another friend’s house, which happens to be located a little way out of town. You get there by way of a gravel road. The little darling was on her way home, obediently recognizing her curfew, when one of her tires went flat. At 11:45Pm. On a not-well-travelled gravel country road. Four teenage girls on a dark road in the middle of the night? And they’re cheerleaders. . . Sounds like a horror movie in the making.

Enter the mobile phone. We got an S.O.S. call at 11:49PM. Off my husband went to rescue the cheer teens, none of whom had any clue how to change a tire. While he was gone, I reminisced about the days before mobile phones — the days before we were all linked to each other 24 hours a day. Well, back then, my crew would have been screwed, facing a long walk back to town, where we’d have to locate a pay phone. Keep in mind it’s January. Miss those days? Not so much.

So all’s well that end’s well there. Except my husband’s fingers almost froze off while he was changing the tire.

When my two older kids started junior high, I started them off with those pre-paid Virgin Mobile phones. Meaning to keep enough minutes on the phones just so they could keep in touch. Not thinking they had hit the point where they actually needed to use mobile phones too extensively. After all, they were addicted to AIM at the time. I figured that suited their communication needs. Wow. What a mistake. First off, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you those pre-paid phones are a RIP-OFF in terms of what a minute of usage actually costs. Secondly, kids + phones equal usage. They were constantly running out of minutes, and I was constantly “topping up” their phones (“topping up” being Virgin Mobile’s euphemism for draining my bank account). Do not make this mistake unless your child has developed some special, heretofore unknown immunity to talking on the phone. You will pay dearly — or, if you stick by your resolution to ONLY spend $XXX.XX/month on the phone, your lovely child could well be unable to use his phone by the 5th of the month. Finally, I had had enough. I handed the Virgin Mobile phones off to my parents, who are EXACTLY the people those phones are perfect for — THEY won’t use a mobile phone unless THEY are stuck on an unpaved gravel road at midnight with a flat tire. Which would never happen, since they go to bed at nine.

So we got in bed with Sprint, which was new to me, since I always had a mobile phone paid for through my work. I know Sprint was rated, not so long ago, as the company with the worst customer service in the universe. I actually haven’t had any issue with their customer service, though — in fact the customer service reps may be even a little overly friendly. For instance, when I bought my younger son the LG Rumor recently (for a VERY good price, thanks to his instant rebate and an online special), a very charming lady who works for Sprint told me that my kids are “very lucky to have a mother like you.” Hmmmm. . . well, yeah, they are, actually. Anyway. . . long story short: for a pretty reasonable, at least to me, price per month, all three of my kids have unlimited text messaging, free minutes after 6PM and all weekend, unlimited internet access, equipment protection. They walk around with the world in their pockets — or purse.

And what’s in it for Mama? This utter connectedness means they can’t escape me. There is no excuse they can give for being out of touch that isn’t obviously a complete and total lie. No more Big Brother — it’s Big Mama.

Coffee Addict

I’m addicted to caffeine. But I love coffee. And with all the great coffee available to me at the snap of a finger, I see no reason to give up this particular jones.

I discovered my caffeine addiction about 9 years ago. I had been happily drinking my morning coffee day in and day out for who knows how long. One day, though, I developed a stomach-churning illness that kept me in bed for 3 days. After Day 1 of lying on my ass in bed, I developed the mother of all headaches. Seriously, I though I was having a stroke. I tossed and turned, turned and tossed, bitched out my husband, and scared the shit out of my kids. Even the cats didn’t want to be around me.

At some point, though, the inner me broke through. Something (someone?) in my mind told me to get a cup of coffee. I second-guessed the little voice in my head, since I’d been throwing up everything I even THOUGHT about eating for 24 hours. The little voice got bigger, though. Coffee was on my mind!

I asked (perhaps not in my sweetest voice) my husband if he would fix me a cup of coffee. Instantly forgiving me for the unwarranted attacks I launched against him, my sweet hubby brought me some coffee. (Thanks hubby!) And I shit you not, this is the truth: I hadn’t had five sips of that coffee before my raging headache all but disappeared.

I was orgasmic. My husband cracked a beer. The kids came back downstairs. The cats crawled out from under the bed.

The curative powers of that one cup of coffee convinced me that all addictions are NOT equal.

My advice to you is this: unless you have a compelling health reason to eliminate coffee from your life, don’t even think about it. What’s better than that first sip of coffee hitting your palate in the morning? Okay, maybe a couple of things, but a good cup of coffee is an essential part of any successful morning routine.

Here’s my recipe for an awesome morning cuppa:

1 cup, warmed for 25 seconds in the microwave (because who wants to put hot coffee in a cold cup???)

Dark, black coffee, from a reputable coffee shop, like, La Prima Tazza, here in Lawrence. Of course, most of you don’t live here in Lawrence, so there’s always Starbucks. And brewed by the hubby, who’s up and alert at an inhuman hour, before you arise.

Pour dark, black coffee into warm mug. Carry mug around with you, sipping constantly, while you get everybody up and out the door.