Your Friendly Neighborhood Autocorrect

So, autocorrect.  I have a solid Love/Hate relationship with autocorrect.  I think it may be one of the most useful/useless tools of our modern electronic devices that allow typing.  By way of evidence, I give you Exhibit A:

Let’s evaluate this.  On the one hand, Autocorrect, which technically has no sense of humor because it is non-sentient and all, is actually suggesting I correct “cjoxlate” to the greatly improved “cjomlate.”  Please make note of this incident and file it away for future reference to an upcoming blog post titled, “2001 is truly here and HAL is real and running everything.  What other excuse could there be for Trump,” as evidence that Autocorrect may not be as non-sentient as we would like to think, along with other bits of our digital tools.  Seriously, ask anyone about their experiences when their phone has suggested ads and posts relating to conversations they have just had IRL while their phone was in their pocket.  The droids are coming, people. 

But for now, the Autocorrect Droid is still suggesting that I swap one nonsense word for an equally garbled nonsense word.  Sooo helpful, AC. Methinks, though, that I am being a bit too quick to bite the digital hand that is helping me.  AC DID pick up cjoxlate as a misspelled word.  I just garbled it so badly it didn’t know what to do with it.  “Sheesh what did she type now?  I mean I know I’m programmed by MIT supergeniuses and can recognize 2,657 different languages and dialects, but there’s only so much a megacomputer program can do!” 

So, touché, AC.  You make a fair point. Yes, your suggested correction was crap, but so was the input I provided.  It got me thinking, though.  What if Autocorrect was programmed to correct our real lives, not just our crappy typing? 

(Wavy scene transition and “Woo-woo” music clip) 

Scene: Saturday evening, on the stoop of a modest apartment.  Two 20-somethings walk up to the front door and stop. 

Dude, still surrounded by the haze of cologne he bathed in before the date and wearing his only clean button up and jeans: 

So, this is where you live? 

Chica, still bearing the vestiges of the makeover her roomies imposed on her before departing on the date: 

Ah, yep.  This is the place. 

Autocorrect:  

That should be, “Yes, this is the correct location.” 

Chica, sighing and closing her eyes in resignation: 

Ok, sure. 

Autocorrect:  

Do you confirm this correction? 

Dude, staring at Autocorrect:   

What? 

Autocorrect: 

This is not a complete sentence.  Please stand still while I draw a blue wavy line around your feet. 

Dude:  

Do NOT draw on my shoes! 

Chica, waving off AC: 

It’s ok, I understood what he meant!   

Autocorrect (with a hint of stiffness, getting down on all fours with a large stick of blue chalk):  

The wavy lines will remain until corrections are made. 

Dude:  

Fine!  I meant to say, “what is going on here?” 

Autocorrect:   

I suppose that will suffice.  Please continue your discourse. 

Chica, side-eyeing AC:  

So, yes, this is my apartment. 

Dude:  

              Looks pretty nice.  How long have you lived h . . . 

Autocorrect:  

RED WAVY LINES! RED WAVY LINES!  STRANGER DANGER! PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION. 

Chica:   

Chill!  He’s not a stranger, I just went on a date with him! 

Autocorrect, leaning towards Chica and whispering loudly in her ear:   

Why is he asking about your living arrangements?  Does he have a criminal record?  Did you ask for references?  Did you properly vet him on the national register of sex offenders?  

Dude:   

I am NOT a Sex Offender! 

(Elderly couple approaching on the sidewalk give Dude the Rascally Varmint Stare and cross to the other side of the street.) 

Dude, glaring at AC:   

Thanks. 

Autocorrect, fully serious:   

I exist to serve you. 

Chica:  

Listen, Autocorrect, can you just take a break for a bit so we can have a conversation? 

Autocorrect, with an offended sniff: 

Fine.  Take your life your own hands.  Don’t mind me, just trying to save you from sex offenders. 

Chica:  

There are no sex offenders here! 

(Elderly couple on other side of street begin scurrying away) 

Dude:   

You know, I have to be at work early tomorrow.  I, uh, had a great time.  I’ll call you. 

(Walks away quickly.) 

Chica, watching her date walk away like his shorts are about to catch fire: 

Well, you did it again, Autocorrect.  What can I say? 

Autocorrect, back turned to Chica: 

You should apologize. 

Chica, outraged: 

Apologize?! You just ran off my seventh first date this month!  I haven’t made it to a second date since I updated your program! 

Autocorrect, with grave majesty: 

You are most welcome. 

Chica:  

I WASN’T THANKING YOU! 

Autocorrect: 

Someday you will.  Just keep an eye on the sex offender registry.  I’m certain one of them is bound to show up. 

Chica, opening her front door and slamming it in Autocorrect’s face: 

GO AWAY! 

Autocorrect, running and calling after elderly couple: 

Excuse me, I believe I just heard you use the phrase “hoodlum” and this reference is unclear to me.  Please halt while I draw a blue wavy line . . .  

So, thinking about it, random gobbledygook corrections aren’t so bad, considering what Autocorrect could be.  Or maybe I should just learn how to type and spell.   

And for the record, the word I was attempting to type was CHOCOLATE.  Honestly, AC should have gotten this if it knew me AT ALL.  Sniff. 

Huzzah for the Slacker Mom

My name is Jennifer and I am a Slacker Mom.  We have a club.  And jackets.  I'll get you one.  And an application.  It's a 3x5 card that says "Hi My Name is . . . " and you can fill in the blank with whatever you want. Or not.  No one is going to collect it. I keep trying to leave the club, however, and I don't know why I do this.  It is the BEST club out there.  We can wear our pajamas all day, take naps when we are falling asleep on our feet, and have brownies for breakfast.  Oh sure, we'll regret it, but c'mon, this isn't the Marathoning Mom team.

But for whatever reason, once a year or so I'll claw my way out of our communal pj pit and drag myself over to the Overcaffeinated Mom sorority and try to join up there.  Owing to their excess of exuberance, they are always happy to greet new pledges.  They swap ideas for making matching family t-shirts when (the entire family) is cheering on their kindergartener soccer player who is, in fact, chasing a bug around in circles.  They exchange Pinterest boards on freakishly adorable birthday party themes and DIY hacks for bento box lunches that can convince any kid to eat raw kale when swirled into a faux lollipop.  Their kids always show up to school looking fresh from the salon and ON TIME.  And they really are nice people.  But gah, I'm exhausted just writing this paragraph.

As I said, about once a year, I pull up my socks (fuzzy, bright green, my favorite) and decide I'm going to do better.  And it's generally about this time of year because, you know, Back To School and all.  I get a bit stern with myself for not doing a better job, I carefully review all of my past failures and identify (or so I think) where I put a foot wrong.  I resolve to make our family more supportive of each other by having everyone cheer each other on at their sporting or club events, which they will all attend. I make plans to create idyllic family excursions and memories that will bring each of my children to tears twenty years from now as they sit lovingly by my side and reminisce on their hallowed childhoods. I research recipes and purchase all needed supplies to make hot and healthy breakfasts and all the aforesaid amazing lunches.

And I truly make the effort.  

And I never get past September.

Wanna know why?  Them.  It's them.  It's really not me, it's them.  

I present my evidence to the jury.

The Support Team.  It's the start of a new football season and this particular son is a senior.  We WILL all go and support him in his last season of football.  While my boys are athletic, let's be real, none of them is going to play college, let alone the NFL.  This is the last season.  It's a home game.  We get there early and get good seats (we live in a small town and Friday Night Lights are very real here).  I packed along stadium seats for everyone and homemade hot chocolate in thermoses and the good camera and blankets and a tub of my world-class chocolate chip cookies.  Before we have even sat down, Younger Brother 1 (YB1) sees a friend and takes off before I can find out where he's going.  YB2 glares at the folded stadium chair and whines that no one has opened it for him.  YB3 starts digging in my purse for concession stand funds.  Hubby has decided to be in charge of photos and has wandered off with the camera, not to be seen again until the end of the game. YB4 is staring into the middle distance with his ear pods in looking cool because many females of a similar age are in the vicinity. I take a calming breath, unfold the byzantine complexity of a stadium chair with one motion, hand the container of cookies to YB3, and send YB4 to go grab YB1.  He does so.  By the hair.  We now have smacking and yelling going, in the midst of an endless line of lifelong town residents approaching the century mark with their walkers coming to see the game.  Excuses and apologies are given, seats are taken, locations and check in points are made, hot chocolate is handed out.  I look at the scoreboard.  We're half way through the first half and I haven't even located my player yet. I have seen zero amazing sportsishness from my senior son because of the YBs.  Why did I think this was a good idea?

The Cherished Vacation.  It's Spring Break.  I decide we should do something different and fun, something the Brothers will enjoy but not expect.  I plan a tour of Weird Seattle.  (Honestly, you should do this.) We are touring with the Express version of our family, with just me and three Brothers in tow this time, so I'm hoping for less chaos.  Please stop laughing now, my intentions were serious.  The main difficulty this time is the cast of the players.  In this version, we have the Anarchist, the Puritan, and the Intolerant Young Adult.  We visit Underground Seattle.  The Anarchist insists on walking off the designated path, touching every item labeled "Do Not Touch" and saying obnoxious things to passersby.  Oh and deliberately farting in close quarters. The Puritan calls him on the carpet for each and every infraction, including a fully detailed description of his future life in prison due to his pernicious ways.  The Intolerant Young Adult slowly builds steam.  We exit the Underground Tour and look at our walking map.  The Anarchist announces the only place he is willing to go is the Patagonia store.  To buy a sticker.  Such are the mysterious ways of the Middle Schooler.  The Puritan declares he will walk no further as he is too exhausted live another 5 minutes, let alone walk anywhere.  The Intolerant Young Adult announces he will beat both of them to a jelly if they don't shut up and begin walking.  Now repeat this for every stop on the tour, for three days in a row.  I vow to return and do the tour again.  Alone.

The Homemade Delicious and Nutritious Lunch.  I am a bit of an addict when it comes to cooking shows.  I try to ration myself because it can get a bit silly with the sheer quantity of baked goods that fill my house within a day when I go on a baking bender.  So when I have a bonafide reason to bake fun stuff, I feel truly justified in my excesses.  And, from all previous experiences, one really can't go overboard when feeding the growing human male, owing to the constancy of the song of their species, "I'm starving," and "what do we have to eat," and "there's nothing to eat," whilst standing in a fully stocked, modern, American kitchen.  Being an experienced BoyMom, I know there are some key elements to keeping them fed and happy.  The best option is something hot that involves an animal protein. (Think pizza.)  Sandwiches and cold cereal are also good options, provided you have LOTS of bread, cheese, meat, peanut butter, jam, milk, and cereal.  Having to drop everything and produce (ideally, in their minds) a full lasagne dinner at 2 in the afternoon when they're feeling a mite peckish is never going to happen, so I thought I'd be an Awesome Mom and make a batch of Ham & Cheese Brioche rolls and have them all ready to go in the fridge.  Then, when the Hunger Monster attacks, the son in question can just grab one and either eat it cold or microwave it for 30 seconds and quell the beast.  Guess what.  Those amazing rolls sat in my fridge for TEN DAYS.  They ate 2.  They are now as stale as old playdough.  Their answers? "I wasn't hungry for that."  "I forgot about them." "What? I didn't know you made them?" (This boy had eaten one already.) SKVBEIFHEWJBLVUSHKL!!!!!!!

And I recall that I have done this before. Repeatedly.  I HAVE made the effort to be the Super Mom and my kids do this.  ALLLLL of this.  Every time.  So with a cleansing sigh of relief, I joyously dive back into the Slacker Mom Pit of Comfortable PJs.  I may not do everything perfectly and beautifully and Pinterest-worthy, but I do what works for MY family.  They are just fine with not having their entire family at every event, finding their own entertainment while I hang out by a pool or beach, and eating Hot Pockets by the casefull.  It works for us.  Huzzah for the Slacker Moms!!

Guerilla Warfare: Laundry Style

I've done a lot of laundry in my life.  Let me pause a moment here to clarify.  When I say "a lot of laundry," I do not mean we fill up the laundry baskets each week.  I do not mean more than three loads a week.  I mean a minimum of three loads A DAY.  Every day, all week long, every week of every month.  And by "load" I mean in my high capacity, "can do fourteen bath towels at a time" washing machine.  I mean piles of towels larger than a small recliner.  I mean mountains of sleeping bags and blankets used as sleeping bags.  Apparently while camping in mud pits.  I mean masses of dirty sports gear that defies the limits of my maximum high capacity washer and dryer.  It.  Never.  Ends.


I have a profound and new respect and reverence for anyone who toiled over laundry before automatic washers and dryers.  I cannot imagine doing laundry before electricity.  Of course, people had fewer clothes back then and didn't seem to need the quantity of stuff we need today.  I think a large aspect of this was the laundry.  I know I would be one of the moms speaking up with, "Yes, that lovely duvet is a stunning match to the new wallpaper.  Do I have to wash it?  Then it's a NOPE.  I'll keep the old quilt thanks."  And "Yes darling, that silk dress is just as cute as it could be.  Do I have to wash it?  Then nope.  You can make due with the two dresses you already have. Do.  Not.  Get.  Them.  Dirty."  I would definitely be one of those moms who let their kids run around mostly naked all the time, as long as it meant I didn't have wash more clothes.  White Trash R Us.

This is the millennium-long guerrilla siege that has been battled on the actual home front ever since the first caveman made his first loin cloth out of his most recent kill.  He proudly held up the pelt, holding it around his waist, admiring himself in the reflection of the nearby cave pool.  His cave wife looked up from her efforts to make the first DIY dishware and sighed.  "No wear pelt in rain.  It get dirty.  Me no wanna wash."

And thus the shot heard round the world rang out.

The Guerrilla Laundry War.

Because I'm sometimes slow on the uptake, I only recently figured out I've been fighting this battle for the better part of thirty years.  I took up the post from my mother, who waged a pretty decent campaign until being overwhelmed by the siege of five daughters who changed their outfits three times a day and then whined when their mother didn't wash each of their precious sweaters by hand in Woolite.  I would have given up too.

I have to admit I threw the first serious grenade in my mother's direction.  At the age of nine months, nonetheless.  I'll give you the abridged version: baby who can walk, minor surgery, antibiotics (and all the attendant intestinal side effects of full-power 1970's penicillin), and doctor who says keep the diapers off until the stitches heal.  And thus we had my parent's first major purchase: a washing machine.

And she fought the good fight until the huddled masses, well more like 1980's lip-glossed hair-sprayed estrogen-rampant masses, simply overwhelmed her.  She won eventually, by dint of attrition (we all moved out).  But it was a long, ugly war.  And it's a guerrilla war, not a full-frontal, regulation attack.  It is sneaky and treacherous and disloyal.  It tricks and deceives you.  It does not fight fair.  And I continue the battle on the same field as my mother and as her mother before her, with slightly better weapons on my side.  I have, as mentioned above, a high-efficiency/high capacity washer and dryer.  I have detergents crafted with the same ultra R &D as plutonium bombs (after all, laundry detergent is more profitable than bombs).  I have spot removers and bleaches and modern, stain-resistant fabrics.  But the enemy's weapons are just as horrible as they ever have been.

The Enemy's Artillery Catalog

The Sock Ball of Death.  There aren't many things that make me shudder on sight.  The Sock Ball of Death does it every time.  Its rolled up, twisted appearance hides the crawling bacteria inside.  It's not just a crumpled sock, it's a sock that has been folded and scrunched down while wet with mud, sweat, and standing field water, then left at the bottom of a laundry hamper or behind a couch or under a bed until it's crunchy and stiff.  And you know, with one glance, that you cannot shake it lose.  You will have to reach your hand in and pull it free.  "Just throw it away!" I hear you scream in horror.  But this is one of the special athletic socks the coach said was REQUIRED and cost more than your last lunch at Panera.  You must resuscitate this sock.  You have to touch that sock to save it.   There is no other way.  That's the kind of dirty pool the enemy plays.  But this is why God gave us rubber gloves.  You snatch one from the nearby box and smile your confident victory smile.  Nice try, Enemy Guerrillas, but we are tougher than the Sock Ball of Death.

The Mystery Pocket.  You pick up the jeans.  They are heavier than they should be.  They're only a child's size ten after all.  They should only weigh a pound or so.  The weight is uneven and the jeans hang oddly.  A slow, dawning horror comes upon you.  Something is in the pocket.  You gulp and feel the sweat start to bead on your upper lip.  The spreading fear and apprehension is making you slightly nauseous.  You do not want to reach into that pocket because you've fought this battle once too often.  ANYTHING could be in the Mystery Pocket.  You turn the jeans upside down and shake.  Two rocks, a frayed and half-chewed lollipop stick, a bent paper clip, and a little plastic army dude from Risk fall out.  You let out a shaky breath.  Relief comes for a moment.  Then you see that the pocket is not empty yet.  There is more to remove.  More that is . . . stuck.  Slowly, you pull the edges of the pocket apart and peer in with one eye.  It won't fully open, though.  This is not a good sign.  You pull harder and see strings of something sticky stretch as you pull the fabric.  The enemy has deployed a serious bomb.  Chewed gum.  A bit of pencil eraser, three small Legos, and . . . Holy Farting Goats that's a dead frog . . .  are stuck in the gum.  But, and you take a moment to find the lemonade here, you caught it BEFORE the dryer.  Those jeans cost $25 (and that was on sale) after all.  Dead frog or not, you can save the jeans.  You are a veteran soldier in the Laundry Wars, after all.

The Mustard Gas of Laundry: Crayons/Pens.  There outta be a law.  If you sell crayons or ink pens, you should be required to include a tiny robot in each package that seeks out and retrieves any and all writing implements of said package.  Like the horror that is a mustard gas bomb, a single crayon can seep into your entire load of laundry and ruin every single item silently and completely.  The mounting anguish and anger that fills your soul as you lift a sock out of the dryer and notice a tiny smear of green where it shouldn't be builds to dread as you pull out a second piece, one of your husband's dress shirts, which also has an odd but vibrant swirl of bright green across the shoulder.  You beg and plead with the universe as you pull out one piece after another that maybe just a few articles of clothing, even just one, might have been spared by the Crayon Bomb.  In the end, you review the casualites: 93% mortality.  One sock was spared, and two hand towels received only minor wounds that can be ignored because they can go in the cleaning bin.  It's a heavy blow.  The enemy won this battle. Nevertheless, you know you will come back to fight another day.

And so, to all my fellow Guerrilla Laundry War Veterans I say, fight on!  Fight dirty . . . er . . . Clean but Unfair!  PE clothes that sat in the locker all year without a single wash?  Throw them away!  Walmart sells gym shorts for $3, you don't need that sort of nonsense in your life!  Gum chewed into the sash of your daughter's favorite princess dress that WILL cause a full mental breakdown if it isn't salvaged?  Peanut butter is your friend!  Or shorten the sash!  And ban chewing gum until she's twelve.  Full battle scene drawn with a ball point pen all over your son's white church shirt?  And done deliberately because he hates anything with a collar that buttons up?  Hairspray and then bleach will show both your son and the pen who is really in charge.  Such weak skirmishes don't even warrant your wrath.

And when all is said and done at the end of the day, remember this: one day there will be grandchildren who take up the enemy's cause and use these same weapons upon your combatants.  Karma will always be your friend. Victory WILL be yours!