Dibs is dibs, my friends.

My first job was at Target when I turned 16. I loved it. I was a cashier when you had to manually enter everything in on the cash register, which was different from a 10-key. An old man told me once I had a “very efficient pinky.” Too bad that didn’t get me anywhere in life.

I recently applied at Target again for holiday help and they were not impressed with my efficient pinky or my Target experience because I got a nice little thanks-but-no-thanks email. Too bad for them though because when I was there the other night it was quiet and one of their cashiers was telling a risqué story across three lanes to another cashier. I worked there when you’d get fired for that.

Remember when you could spank your kids? Remember when your mom’s arm was the seatbelt? I was sitting middle in the front seat of my mom’s Nova when she skidded on ice and hit a car. My head hit the rear view and she had to brush glass out of my hair in front of some random’s house. Remember when there were no cell phones? My mom had to actually go in to a stranger’s house and call my uncle to come get us.

My kids aren’t going to know a world without cell phones. Unless there’s a zombie apocalypse, of course, or some kind of Revolution power outage. I call dibs on Daryl in the zombie apocalypse and dibs on Miles in the Revolution-type power outage. Dibs is dibs, people. And backup dibs goes to Rick and Monroe, respectively.

I had to have a conversation with the third teen in this house about privacy. Privacy, awww, privacy. Do you know the last time I went to the bathroom in silence? Yeah, Tenderheart, please, let’s talk about privacy.

In this picture she’s literally sitting on me.
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Tenderheart told me a story about someone who got in trouble last week in class for using the computer to IM a friend and got her privileges taken away because she was using the F word….the big one. And you know you never know how your kids talk when you’re not around, you just send them out there and trust you’ve done enough.

Anyway, long story long, I read some of Tenderheart’s text messages. Listen, she’s 13 and she’s not curing cancer, but you’d have thought I’d stolen her designs she was going to use to win Project Runway. As though I’d stolen the codes to the nukes. She acted as if I’d….I don’t know but it was really dramatic.

So I had to explain to my last-born daughter that if you want privacy, send me your forwarding address the minute you turn 18 or graduate, as long as graduation comes first. Or, get that high-paying babysitting job and pay your own cell phone bill. The nerve, the unmitigated gall, okay, dramatics run in the family, but how dare you be mad at me.

And I’m not wishing for a zombie apocalypse or anything, but I think the youth of today could use a little less. Of everything. Just less. Which is what they’ll be getting this Christmas since Target is going with youth and inexperience over pure unadulterated awesomeness. Me and my efficient pinky will have to find something else.

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