No, I Really Can’t.

” If Plan A doesn’t work, the alphabet has 25 more letters- 204 if you’re in Japan.”

-Claire Cook

There used to be a time when I believed that it was important to do everything, at least passably, well.

I blame my mother. She had me and my brother in everything, trying things “just once” in an effort to find out something that we could do (and of course, now I am doing the same with my own littles, lucky girls). I liked having a life resume of achievements a mile long. I liked being able to chime in when someone was talking about something that i might know a little about because, well, been there done that.

Who am I kidding. I still like doing that. My brother says I come across as a “know-it-all,” which is probably spot-on.

Here’s the thing about being a know-it-all, though. You also know when you can’t.

My four-year-old is a lot like me. No fear, she just rushes in. Rushes to touch. Rushes to run across the street. Rushes to grab and break just to see what’s inside. Exactly like me. I’m the kind of person who learns by doing. And failing. A lot.

On Facebook, people were bouncing around their posts of the three fictional characters that describe themselves. Here’s mine: Lucille Ball’s character in “I Love Lucy”, Rachel Green from “Friends”, and Goofy.

I’m not a complete moron. I just do some stupid things. And can’t do some of the most simple of things.

Here are some examples:

I can’t sew a button

Poor Ray. He’ll never wear those shorts again for more than a week. This is the third time that I have had to resew the top button on his favorite pair. Yet, somehow, he keeps leaving them for me to fix. Again. And again.

We’ll see if this time sticks. I used Krazy Glue.

I can’t make Jello

Who can’t make Jello? This girl, right here.

And I follow the box directions. And I use the really hot and really cold waters. And I let that sucker set. For days.

Nope. Either it’s super gummy on the bottom, or it’s still a watery mess.

Every. color. Every. time. Ray tells me, “Every house should have Jello in the fridge! Like, it’s what we used to eat all the time as kids!”

Not today and not in this fridge, my friend.

I can’t get dressed

All excited for one of the first Mom’s Nights Out in a while, I pull out the new dress Anthropologie sent me (yes, they sent it to me). Navy maxi, zipper, criss-cross straps.

Maxi. Defined by its easiness.

Unless you are me. In which case, you will find yourself tangled and cursing as you try to pull it over your head (no wonder it was on clearance!). You might even have to get cut out of the thing or risk a dislocated shoulder. You will also definitely ruin your hair, lose an earring, and break into enough of a sweat from your efforts that you are now considered a “hot mess.”

At some point, though, you might re-examine the position of the zipper. You’ll notice that it belongs on the side, not the back. Relieved no one witnessed this little contortion act, you’ll slip the dress on, only to find that you got deodorant all over the front.

Jeans. Jeans are always good.

I can’t take a selfie.

Rules? Of course I know the rules for positioning and leaning and duck faces. Surely, it’s not that hard: point, hair toss, and click! There’s even post photo editor!

Doesn’t matter. I look melted and wrinkled and old. Ugh.

Not trying to look like a rockstar model. Would settle for nice. Might just need the gym more.


There is always room in life for improvement. I am sure that there are things I have yet to run across that I can fail at spectacularly.

But with children, there’s hope.

I’ll have Alexa make the Jello, Lucy can sew, and I’ll leave the picture taking to my expert cousins who always look fabulous (I can use the phrase, their generation, like the old fart I am). The dressing thing?

Work in progress. I’m bringing the toga back.



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