I need to do a quick thankful post before I put on my fat pants and head out to ransack my families’ (count 2) kitchens. Grandma’s stuffing has been made in bulk, and hopefully I did her justice. It’s a gamble every year, and since Grandma was from the Greatest Generation, there is no set measurements or ingredients, so each year I have to wing it, which if you’ve ever seen me cook (which is kind of like sighting Chupacabra), I need very FIRM instructions. Most of you have requested sarcasm, which is coming, but I thought I’d start off with some schmoop, so I don’t seem totally heartless and unthankful. Bear with me.

1. I am thankful for my husband. He’s like a fine wine, each year he becomes more and more tasty (and a little bit more red). We have been together so long and we get each other so well, he can tell me when my period is going to start before I can (this is mostly for self-preservation purposes).

Us.  Feel the love. and double chins

Us. Feel the love. and double chins

2. I am thankful for my children. They have become my co-conspirators, my partners in crime if you will, of life. They are each developing their own brand of sarcastic dry humor and on a daily basis crack me up. Plus, they are the best unconditional lovers I’ve ever experienced.  I am truly cherishing the fact they are still happy to see me at the end of the day and very little of what I say has yet to be met with an eye roll.

OK – Now for the sarcasm. Put on the sarcasm font, because that’s all this is.

1. I am thankful for this guy. God I love living in a mostly red state. Please note, I HATED Dubya with every fiber of my being for 8 looooong years, but why on God’s green earth would I put his mug on the back of my car? Yeah, cause that sounds smart, put the person you dislike the most on the back of your car to devalue it completely. I wonder if he has his truck nuts in the glovebox, you know, to tone down the douchiness.

We should be friends.

We should be friends.

(Side note:  Oh MY FREAKING GOD, Word Press just totally deleted everything I just typed below this line! Ga!  You cannot recreate this genius prose people.  Oh well, I will try.  So much for quick.)

2.  I am thankful that no one saw me sneak through the Chik Fil A drive thru last week.  In my defense, I needed to grab a quick bite on the way back to work after an appointment, and it was the only drive thru on the way.   I glared and judged everyone in the parking lot around me like they were Sarah Palin herself giving me a thumbs up.   It doesn’t help matters that I could not in reality “sneak” through this drive thru because I have equality stickers on the back of my van, which are a dead giveaway this restaurant and I don’t share the same ideals.   Damn those people and their delicious chicken.  I still have waffle fry evidence on the floor of my car.  I still love you my gays, and don’t worry, I didn’t share any of our “agenda” with anyone. World domination is still ours!!!

3. I am thankful for yoga pants today.  So much give, so much extra room.  And no, my yoga pants are not Lululemon because 1) they are too expensive, and 2) they aren’t designed for us fatties.

4. I am thankful I have given up organized religion.  Sleeping in on a Sunday never felt so sinful.  I love me some Jesus, but just not quite at 9 a.m. on the weekends.  Unless He loves me in a big fluffy robe playing Candy Crush.  (OK, let’s see if this happens again.  I typed this last time, saved it, and it all disappeared….Jesus??  I’m sorry man, I’m just kiddin around. If you don’t have a sense of humor I’m doomed.)


5. I am thankful for the Winx Club that my daughter has recently discovered on Netflix.  Should I hate this show? I mean, I do because she is obsessed and I hear the theme song in my every waking thought, but is it bad for raising my strong, independent girl?    Should I, as an adult, know what the hell is going on?  All I know is they have anatomically impossible waistlines and, much like Little Mermaid did for me, are giving my daughter an unrealistic idea of what real hair can actually do.


Ok – have to go do family time.  Hope you and yours have a wonderful day!  Thanks for reading me.  I hope I brighten your days in some way.

My New Pink Box

Hey all!  Today, I’m going to talk about shoes!! SHOES!  I got new ones and they are awesome and I’m going to spend the next 10 minutes of your life talking about them!   They are this adorable ballet flat, kitten heel, leopard print, strappy sandal and I LOVE THEM!!!!  They are super comfortable and make my ankles look super skinny!  I plan to wear them with my skinny jeans and adorable new tank top this weekend.   SHOES!!!

My New Jimmy Choos

My New Jimmy Choos


SOOO CUTE!!!  And they were only $450!!!  Steal!

OK.  Are they gone yet? If the pic didn’t do them in, then the price will make them run.  (Seriously, those shoes are cute and $450.  How fun would it be to pluck down that kind of cash for just some wear once holiday shoes?)

This post is just for us girls.  If there are any guys left reading still, they are either gay and as soon as I say the word vagina they will be out soon enough, or my husband, who is still simmering about whether I actually bought the above mentioned shoes.

Today, I went to my hoo-ha doctor.  You know, for my lady parts.  The super fun yearly exam that we women have to endure to make sure that cancer isn’t poking it’s little head into any doors we don’t want poked (by that anyways, and yes the double entendres will be overflowing on this post).

So, I sit in the waiting room, and it’s me, 10 super pregnant women, a handful of kids, and a lady so old that I imagine vaginal problems aren’t what’s going to kill her.  Do you think when she’s in the stirrups dust comes out if she sneezes?  Cause that’s what I am picturing right about now.  And yes, I am picturing an old lady’s roast beef in my head.  I mean really, if I get to 95, I’m just going to say it was nice knowing you doc, but I’ll take my chances from here on out.  No way I’m getting my saggy taco up into stirrups.

I’m knocked out my daydreams of old muffs when they call my name.  I head back for my yearly vag party.

First off, why do I shave my legs and wear nice underwear?  First, he doesn’t see the undies, those are long gone by the time it’s time to give the fetus factory the ol’ checkeroo.  And when’s the last time your doctor touched your leg during an exam?  And if they do, that’s what’s going to gross them out?  Doubtful.  (And if they do touch your leg, please make sure you are not doing your yearly exams in a seedy hotel by the airport.  Board certified has nothing to do with erections ladies.)

And why do I get nervous gas whenever I go?  Seriously.  I could not eat for a week, and I’d still bloat up like a balloon and freak out about how I might be giving my doctor a strong headwind while he’s doing the how’s-your-father routine on my hot pocket.

Anyways, after I pee in a cup, walk it out proudly to the nurse, who totally gives me the you-need-to-drink-more-water face, I’m up on the next step of the walk of shame.  The scale.  I prepped myself for this already a few days before by getting an initial reading in private, so my reaction would not be quite as intense.  You see, I haven’t been on the scale for months for a number of reasons.  1) I just recently hopped back on the healthy wagon and know the number can’t be good.  2) My weight has been fluctuating the same 5 lbs. since I started trying to lose weight, so it’s oftentimes awesomely demotivating. And 3) scales make me want to jump off a cliff.  It’s just a number.  What really matters is how I feel, not some stupid number on a stupid scale that stupid society tells me needs to be a certain stupid number.  Which it never is anyways.

Sidenote:  Do you think nurses take training courses on how to keep a neutral face when the number pops up?  Mine was excellent today at the no-emotion face, because you know deep down one tiny Hmmm or sigh will create a shame spiral that ends with emptying out the Halloween buckets in an hour.  One word lady…one word… and I will eat my feelings tonight until I pass out!!!

Needless to say, I was prepared, so there was no gasping, moaning, beating on my chest or tearing of robes.  I calmly said OK and hopped off like that number didn’t disappoint me.  Of course, I was wearing extremely heavy shoes, crazy weighty clothes (think chainmail armor) and of course, said bloat from nervous gas.  So give or take a pound or 20 and I’d say the scale was accurate.

Once the formalities were over, I got naked and sat on the table. Yes, I had the “gown,” which gleefully exposed my tushie to the lucky lottery winner to walk in the door next, as well as my paper drape which is there to maintain my brain’s separation of me and what everyone is actually looking at down there.  (Once it slipped and I freaked out because my brain realized OH MY GOD THEY ARE ACTUALLY LOOKING AT MY VAGINA DOWN THERE!  I have made sure that hasn’t happened again, but then I’ve had 2 kids, so really I don’t have any dignity left to speak of anyways.  It’s hard to get embarrassed after a 19 year old male nursing student runs your catheter at delivery time.)

Of course, my underwear and bra were discretely tucked into my clothes so as not to offend.  I was actually excited to be there and I prayed he was running late because I recently discovered Candy Crush and was looking forward to ripping through my 5 lives in a futile attempt to get to Level 30.  Out of 450 or so.  I am obsessed, which I knew would happen, which was why I avoided it for so long.  Then my daughter starts playing it on Mark’s phone, then we have to get it for my phone, and I just have to help a wee bit here and there, and BAM, I am counting the minutes at work until I can play again.

No suck luck.  Bastard’s running on time.  We make small talk and act like I’m not butt naked on a table waiting to show him the bearded clam and that’s it’s not the millionth one he’s seen today.  (Really, not the dream job you’d think it be for men really.)

He asks if I’m pregnant (standard question, no offense taken, he totally wasn’t even looking at the food baby).  I gasp and yell NO a bit too loudly.  It’s not like asking me the question will actually make conception happen, but I adamantly assure him I am in no such way nor plan to be EVER AGAIN.

And since I’m mid-30ish, we get to talk about mammograms, lumpy boobs, ridiculously heavy periods, mood swings that make Heeere’s Johnny look stable and other fun, comfortable topics of conversation.  No more baby questions, getting pregnant questions, fertility and so on that 10 years ago were all I thought and dreamt about.  Nope, now it’s questions like cancer?  Cancer here?  Cancer there?  Is this bump cancer?  Is this normal?  Yes?  Or is it CANCER?  Or the ever fun looming conversation of the M-word.  Menopause.  Cause yes, now that I have successfully birthed two adorable children and ruined said areas of my body, I now get to look forward to 10 or 15 years of hot flashes, mood swings and intermittent periods that stop, go, stop, and then GOOOO again.  Awesome.  Can’t wait.

Some days I wish I had a penis.  All they have to do is turn their heads and cough.  But then, nevermind, it’s a ridiculous piece of flesh and how annoying would that dangler be schlepping around all day long?  But then again, what woman hasn’t wondered what sex is like for a dude?  How awesome can it be to rule their every thought since the dawn of time?   Pretty epic I imagine.  But that’s a topic for another day.

Hope you enjoyed my oversharing.  Until next time.  I’ll clean it up next time and maybe for once talk about something heartfelt and educational.

Excuses Excuses

Maria Kang has caused another mommy controversy on the internet these past few weeks (see here).   She posted a picture of herself in tight workout gear with her three kids next  to her.  The caption reads, “What’s Your Excuse?!”  People say it’s fat shaming, judgy, etc.  Also, she’s a bad mom for ignoring her kids to get fit.  I say patooey on the whole thing.  I just read this from Baby Sideburns (The New Rules of Mommyhood) and I completely agree.  100%.  Did you read them both?  If so, do that, then COME BACK.  Don’t get sidelined by Kim K’s engagement ring or that Joss & Main ad.

I say let each mom be each mom.  If Maria Kang can work out and be gorgeous and a good mom, rock on with her bad self.  You can’t call her a bad mom.  She’s just doing what’s right for her, and you have no idea whether she’s a bad mom or not.  You have very limited information.  This tends to piss me off (see here).

BUT, in fun, I thought I’d offer my excuses for Why Not?

  • Traveling husband/dad
  • Full time job including travel time/daycare drop-off
  • 2 very fast moving hours a night with my kids (must include feeding, bathing, homework)
  • I would rather read.  Currently the Black Dagger Brotherhood.  Seriously, I CANNOT PUT THEM DOWN.  Vampires + porn + 12 books 500+ pages each = How’s a 7:00 bedtime sound kids??
  • I can’t read on the treadmill, it makes me nauseous.
  • I really like to eat.  I could write a love letter to food that would be more erotic than one to my husband.  Seriously, if above mentioned vampires ate food the entire 500 pages, I’d still be totally turned on.
  • If I do get the rare opportunity to use our local YMCA membership, I am totally intimidated by gym people and the equipment, so I wuss out and get on the treadmill for a half hour, which I could totally do at home.  And at home, I could wear just a sports bar and shorts, and not have to worry about various exposed jiggly parts or the fact my vagina is slowing trying to consume my shorts.  (Shut it!  You know it happens to you too!).  Plus there’s the ick factor of hopping on a machine after sweaty, hairy guy vacates it without wiping it down.
  • Working out makes me sweat.  I hate being hot and sweaty.  I don’t have enough underwear to make this comfortable.
  • Working out at home is all the way DOWNSTAIRS.
  • I have trouble balancing my Kindle on the equipment to watch TV.  Music is nice, but I need some visual eye candy.  Maybe I could hire some firemen to dance in front of me whilst I work out.  Nope, scratch that, see above workout gear.
  • My available work out times are 4:30 to 5:30 a.m. or 9:00 to 10:00 p.m.  Those are definitely my optimum energy hours.  I think of all the times I’ve planned to get up and exercise in the morning, I think I’ve done it maybe twice in my whole life.  The road to hell is paved with good intentions…and donuts.
  • I hate healthy food.  Every day, I bring an apple to work.  Each day, I add said apple to my ever growing bushel in my food drawer. Eventually I will make a pie with them.
  • I can’t pronounce edamame or quinoa, therefore, can’t buy them for fear the cashier will want to talk about them, hence exposing my ignorance.
  • I hate healthy food.  Seriously.  Hate it.  My ideal “healthy” snack is a spoonful of Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter.
  • I love pop.  I hate water.  Just saying it makes me happy (POP, POP, POPPEDTY POP POP).  Water makes me sad and bored, and doesn’t wash down that candy bar aftertaste like a pop can.  God, I can hear me becoming diabetic.
  • Diets make me instantly hungry.  Just thinking about a diet makes me hungry.  Like, right now.  Do I have any cheesesticks in the fridge?  Is it too late for nachos?
  • My happy pills make me tired and slow my metabolism.
  • My allergy pills make me tired and you know, probably slow my metabolism too.
  • My kids make me tired.  Seriously, ever spend an hour yelling to get them into bed, brush teeth, poop, pee, break up fights, break up giggle fests, freak out over homework not done, get water for parched daughter, tell son why he cannot have water, argue about how long he can read, assure daughter there are no monsters in the house or room,  spray monster repellent into room just in case, reassure daughter all is OK after her nightmare (which she hasn’t had yet, because she has yet to close her eyes), tuck them in, re-tuck them in after they get up to rearrange their stuffed animals, trim a “nail” (read hangnail that is obviously life-threatening), put band-aid on non-existent boo boo, hear about friend’s vacation, talk about our vacation, and so on….?  Yeah, by the time they have finally given up the fight for the night, all I want to do is sit and stare at the wall.  Puttin on exercise gear (see hot description above), tennis shoes (apparently this is a Midwesterners’  term, so OK rest of America “shoes”), get water, desired electronic device for entertainment and heading downstairs does not sound appealing.  A glass of wine, a good book and/or catching up on New Girl and Vampire Diaries does however.

I want to be one of those women.  Like Maria Kang.  I want to LOVE exercise.  I want to LOVE healthy eating.  I go in cycles.  My husband usually times them.  I get on the wagon, detox for a week (read:  miserable, hungry, constant internal yelling at self), slowly start feeling awesome, crave working out, then BAM Coldstone happens or sick happens or tired happens and I am off the wagon on a binge most heroin addicts would say, Calm down lady, why don’t we ease up a little eh?  (Because my heroin addicts are Canadian.)

So, those are my excuses.  They are lame I know.  I am slowly killing myself I know.  It’s a vicious cycle.  I feel like I am a hamster stuck on a spinning wheel.  Only my spinning wheel consists of a couch, Kindle, Hulu and a snuggie.

Good night!

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner


Silence. Maybe they won’t see me. Maybe they’ll just go back outside.

“Mom! You have to come see this! There’s a bunny leg that looks dead outside in the yard!”

Uh, no thanks, I’m good here. Just don’t touch anything that looks dead ok?

“No! You have to see this!”

FINE. Reluctantly I step into the yard to see what has my children, as well as the gaggle of neighborhood kids all huddled around my empty flower bed.  Some already have sticks in hand to do what kids do best – poke dead things.



Yes folks, I had in my mulch just under my bedroom window a completely disemboweled, decapitated squirrel. OK, it turned out to be a bunny, but hey, without a head, it’s difficult to identify. Either way – disgusting.

The thing had died a horrible death. I can’t see a head, maybe it’s tucked up underneath the body. The stomach had been ripped open, with a circular brown organ sitting neatly beside it, as if it’s carnivorous attacker couldn’t stomach it. Seriously, I was waiting for Hannibal Lector to walk around the corner with a nice Chianti and a side of fava beans.

I shooed the kids away, but they were like moths to a flame. One ran to get his mom, as if I had decimated the thing personally and she was the only one who could resuscitate it. G wanted to know why the bunny had to die like that. It’s nature sweetie, some things eat other things. Give me a second to figure out how to explain the food chain to you AFTER I deal with its latest casualty. One kid took sentry up next to it in an effort to dissuade the other kids away with a fully loaded Nerf gun. There was no moving this kid, he was the lookout and that was that. I let him be as I stared at the disgustingness trying to figure out how to handle this.

Ah what the hell, daylight was fading, I was tired. Let’s go find something of Mark’s in the garage to cover it with. Ah Ha! 1 nice empty orange paint bucket will work nicely as I procrastinate one more thing I don’t want to do. So, much to the entire neighborhood’s disappointment, I gently covered the carcass with the bucket and placed a stone overtop so wind, animals or human animals did not knock it over “accidentally.” I kicked everyone out for the evening, went inside and locked the door, fully intending on leaving it for Mark to deal with Saturday morning. Three days later.

The next day, I hemmed and hawed about whether to “man” up and take care of it or leave it to my husband, because you know, I’m just a girl, I’m dainty and frail, and frankly, it’s icky.

Crap. I have to take care of it. What if the neighbor kids touch it, get rabies and die? Hello lawsuit.  Also, what if its young came a hoppin along only to discover its mother brutally murdered and covered with little to no care? Nope, this family has lived through enough as it is. OR what if its sadistic murderer comes back to rip off some legs too? Then I would have even more mess scattered throughout the yard, which would lead to more rabid kids and distraught bunny offspring and grieving bunny husbands. So, I put the kids in front of the TV, suited up and decided to tackle this thing on my own.

With light fading fast, I grabbed the spade shovel out of the shed and walked around to stare at the bucket.

I can’t do this.

Yes I can. People in the country do this all the time.

F you. I live in the CITY for a reason. Plus it’s super dark in the country and you know that’s where murderers lie in wait for their next victims.

OK, calm down….What if I knock the bucket over and something springs up at me? What if it stinks? Do I bury it or throw it out?

After some more staring and Facebook mea culpas, I decided on throwing it in a trash bin (with a bag in it), since burying it was a lot of work, and let’s face it, I didn’t know this bunny. I knocked the bucket over with the shovel and jumped out of the way like it was Frankenstein’s bunny come back to life to eat/kill me for locking it in a bucket for 24 hours. No such luck. Still deader than a doornail.

I took a deep breath, looked pleadingly across the street at the neighbor who is ALWAYS out manicuring her lawn, as if willing her to help me, and dug in. I got a good load of dirt from under it so I couldn’t feel it’s body and dumped it into the waiting trash can. I then proceeded to get the heeby jeebies for the next minute or so (Still no neighborly love coming my way. She’s probably mad at me because every fall I stare out my front window at them tractor vacuuming their leaves up until their yard is spotless, trying to use The Force to will her husband over to my pitiful yard, but alas, never have they come over.).

Once the shakes stopped, I realized this bunny had no head. Wait, isn’t there a rhyme that goes with this?

Fuzzy bunny loves some honey.

Fuzzy bunny lost its head.

Fuzzy bunny wasn’t so fuzzy was he?

No? Not ringing a bell? K. Nevermind.

Then I freak out. WHERE IS THE FREAKIN HEAD? Is there a falcon or hawk somewhere with a trophy nest of bunny/squirrel heads? Does some ‘roided out cat have its head as a necklace to warn all other neighborhood wildlife that it’s not fuckin around? Crap! What if it’s still in the yard somewhere? What kind of creature rips heads off animals?

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. As you can see, I am a city girl at heart. For some of you, this probably happens with some regularity, but for me, this was a extraordinary experience. I am forever scarred. I will always be on the hunt for your killer, Fuzzy Bunny. I WILL NOT FORGET.

I remember


This day always bums me out a bit.  Well me, and the rest of America.  12 years ago today was a day I’ll never forget.  It just so happens the three days before that is a day I’ll never forget either.

Yep folks, I got married three days before 9/11.  Which means my where were you on 9/11 story happens right smack in the middle of our honeymoon.  The world had come to a screetching halt and we had to put on a happy face to squeeze every last dime out of our Caribbean cruise and overpriced day excursion in Cozumel.

It was 9:30 a.m. when the Captain came on for his usual morning announcements, except his tone was somber and he told us today was a sad day for America and to turn on our TVs and he would be back momentarily to brief us on what he knew.

We turned on our TV to CNN to watch the first tower burning inexplicably while the newscasters tried to guess what happened.  Seconds later my new husband and I watched the second plane fly into the second tower on live TV.  It still makes me nauseous to this day to remember that feeling.  We watched in horror like everyone else that day when the Captain came back on to tell us we’d all been background checked and cleared.  After an hour or so of watching the coverage, we stumbled shell-shocked out of our room to attempt to enjoy our day.  It was a somber excursion to a beach in which I remember only wanting to talk about what was going on back in the real world.  A couple attempting to relax next to us shakily shared that the husband worked in one of the buildings next door to the World Trade Center and he’d be at work if he hadn’t taken this vacation.

People needed a release on our ship and I think either that night or the next day they organized a memorial service for anyone who wanted to join.  So many people were tied to people near or in the towers, trying to connect back home.  Most were like me, just numb by how one minute it’s a normal Tuesday morning, and the next you’re not sure what’s happening in this world and if you can ever go back to normal.

It took me two days to realize CNN had never gone to commercial.  It wasn’t until we got home that we realized the entire nation had pretty much stopped in its entirety.  Cell phones were around, but not with the coverage as we know today and it didn’t even occur to me to call home to tell our family we were fine.    Internet was not quite yet the go to source it is today and charged for access which was limited while at sea anyways.  My cousin who was a travel planner and organized our trip frantically made back up arrangements for us to rent a car to drive back to Ohio from Miami in the event we could not fly out as planned the following Saturday.

It took forever to get for every single person to be cleared by the FBI to step foot off the ship.  We were corralled out of our rooms in the morning and sat on various decks for 3 hours listening to conspiracy theorists, tall tales and hearsay being flung around the common areas like poo.  The cruise line offered half off stays for the next week because so many people had cancelled for the following week.

Ultimately, we did make it home uneventfully.  We rolled into Miami Airport on a shuttle bus, past heavily armed military units, bomb-sniffing dogs and people with mirrors checking under cars for bombs.  Security was crazy high.  Airports were eerily quiet and somber.  The plane ride was even more quiet.  You knew how tense everyone was when everyone cheered as we landed safely in Detroit.  Cheered.  NO ONE cheers when they land in Detroit.

We made it home and Monday returned to our lives.  We’re still married happily and have two kids who have yet to know of that day.  Fortunately, they’ll never have quite the same feeling about it as their dad and me.  I just hope they don’t ever have a Where Were You When story in their lifetimes.

Party Planner

Who wouldn't want to make this kid smile?

Who wouldn’t want to make this kid smile?

I am FREAKING out. I have NO time to be putting together a birthday party for my 7 year old! I want this to be EPIC. But not so epic that we set the bar too high for next year and not enough to put us in debt. But, I want my little boy to be thrilled about his big day.

I just spent around $50 on favor gift bags that if the parents of the kids invited are like me, they will slowly but surely throw each and every crap toy away when said joys of life are looking the other way.

We got a bouncy house to compliment the pool, which will hopefully be warm. The pool, not the bouncy house, because that would be gross. I will hope and pray no one breaks an arm or cracks their head doing something only 7 year old boys can think up.

I am filling up water balloons, because frankly, I’m an idiot and will enjoy picking up balloon fragments for the next three weeks. (I initially used the words “rubber pieces,” but I thought that was a poor word choice.)

I will have to listen to Harlem Shake and Gangham Style no less than 35 times in a two hour period.

I will have roughly 24 kids underfoot, 80% of them boys. Who are all approximately 7 years old. I think I will install a urinal in the garage so as to avoid the puddles of pee I will inevitably find behind my toilet in our one and only bathroom. I’ll have to stock up on toilet paper and soap that’s for sure. HA! Not likely. I am not sure boys know what either of those things are.

Cool part is if we survive this one, we get to do it all again in 3 weeks for my daughter who will be turning 5, who will want no less than the most awesome party ever. If I don’t figure out how to get unicorns to show up, I am so dead to her. It’s our own fault really. Christmastime makes us really randy, so two September birthdays it is. Up until this point we’ve had them together and for family only, but they are now two very different animals, ahem kids, and we had to give them their own parties and not punish them for our Christmas/New Year’s fertility successes.

Do you think she'll buy it?

Do you think she’ll buy it?

Positive points: Cookie cake. Crazy presents and a little boy who will be super excited to see a RC helicopter in the pile. A kiddo who will have the best time and entertain some hopefully long-term friends. Worth it right? I think so.

Wish me luck. If you see me on Saturday, just know I will be at least one Xanax deep. That reminds me, I need to get that prescription filled again. I wonder if they prescribe it in bulk?



Say Goodnight Gracie

When my son turned 1, he was given a gift by my Aunt and Uncle. I always remember this gift because it is a light activated animal puzzle. When you take the piece out it moos, woofs, meows, oinks, and cock-a-doodle-doos per its corresponding animals. My Aunt laughed when I opened it and made the comment she was pretty sure I might not appreciate this as much as Bear would. Well 6 years later, the puzzle is still alive and well, even though various attempts have been made on its life. All but one piece have survived and it can not be found. See if you can guess which one it is. (This by the way is how G is greeted and goodnighted every night/morning whenever we turn the lights on or off. Enjoy.

Stick a Fork in Me

Let me recap my day.

12:01 a.m.  “Mommee, can I sleep with you?”   Waaa?  Um OK, sure. 

1:00 a.m.  G!  STOP KICKING ME!!  “BUT I WANT TO!!!!”

1:05 a.m.  “Mommy?  Do you know I kick you because I love you?”  Thanks G, but maybe you could show it in another way mkay?  Now go to sleep. 

2:00 a.m.  My lower half commences punishment for the lovely soft serve ice cream I treated myself to that evening.  If anyone sees me ordering and/or eating soft serve, milkshakes, etc.  please smack it out of my hand.  Because 2 a.m. is a BITCH.

5:15 a.m.  Commence G screaming and holding her ears in pain and running a low fever.  Run to get Motrin in her and some cold water.  Did I mention yesterday was a week after a tonsillectomy/adenoid removal surgery?  Most kids are raring to go in 2 days, back to doing the usual shenanigans, but no, my G will take the full 2 week recovery time and be miserable the entire time.  I hope and pray it’s worth it.  This has been a hell of a year sickness-wise.

7:00 a.m.  Wake up.  Fortunately got to sleep in a bit because today is the first day of 1st grade!!!  Woo hoo!  I get to pretend I don’t work for a few minutes and get the pleasure of driving my kiddo to school.  Wait, damn.  Started my period.  Commence day of cramps.

8:35 a.m.  Realize I have been farting around for an hour and a half and start screaming for everyone to get in the car, while I haven’t gotten dressed yet and the kids are only halfway there.  Apparently 1.5 hours is not as long as I think it is.

8:55 a.m.  Drop Bear off at school.  Hover nervously until I realize I am making things worse, then leave.  Tear up for God knows why.  I am excited about this day, why am I crying?


First day!  Can you see BOTH of them?  hee hee

First day! Can you see BOTH of them? hee hee


9:00 a.m.  Drop G off at Grandma and Papa’s cause there’s no way she’s going to back to preschool this week.  Too bad I paid for half a week optimistically.

9:30 a.m.  Get to work.  Receive icy glare from co-worker whom has been dumped with all my work from my yesterday call off due to no sitters and a still sad, pathetic recovering daughter and a late start today due to school starting.  Commence work, attempt to prove I am a team player.  Turn brain off.

3:40 p.m.  Receive frantic call from school secretary.  What number bus is Bear supposed to be on?  What 5, not 6?  He’s NOT supposed to go home, but to daycare?  Just like he’s telling us?  Just like last year?  OHHH.  Well he missed that bus because we told him not to get on the right one, can you come get him?

3:42 p.m.  Calm upset son down.  Call Grandma and Papa frantically.  G/P to the rescue.  All’s fixed.  Make several phone calls to ensure this doesn’t happen again.

3:43 p.m.  Get report from G/P that G is not doing so hot today.  Call ENT AGAIN to be reassured this is very normal and as long as she’s eating and drinking and no fever over 102, she’s on her way to recovery, BUT it could be another week away from being over.  Sigh.

3:45 p.m.  Stare at margarita mix in the fridge (Yes, we have that at work and yes, it’s mine.  It’s not such a bad place to work really.).  Try to figure out if I can have a drink and still drive across town in an hour and then stay awake the rest of the evening.   Decide against.  I am such a friggin trooper.

5:00 p.m.  Due to being late, not in my usual parking place in the Parking Garage of Horrors (aka our underground, multi-level, low ceiling, heavily pillared, tiny parking spaced, hairpin turn building parking garage), I attempt to back out of a space completely opposite what I’m used to and BAM!  Despite, a back up camera, various beeping safety features and blind spot detectors, I have hit a pillar HARD with my just over a year old super pretty mom-mobile.  Now, it looks like this.

Seriously.  Worst.  Driver. EVER.

Seriously. Worst. Driver. EVER.

5:10 p.m.  Call hubby and swear and cry A LOT.  Assurance given that I won’t be killed for car and kids will be OK.

5:30 p.m.  Get to G/P house to be greeted with a homemade dinner and a kind ear.  Guess it all isn’t bad is it?

7:00 – 8:30 p.m.   Return home, bath wrangle (see this post for that experience), be told THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER, simply because I tried to wash her hair.  Get yelled at for making a 6  year old go poop even though he’s farting so bad he’s making it hard to breathe in here. Watch Tinkerbell Secret of the Wings AGAIN.  Read books – Barbie Charm School AGAIN.  (It was G’s night to pick.)

9:00 a.m.  Tell my sad story to you fine folks and listen to my cat yowl from the bedroom.   The one waiting for her turn and her nightly wet nose, pile of hair rubdown.

Stick a fork in me folks.  I’m done.

BUT.  If I was in politics, I would spin it like this.

Snuggle with daughter all night!

Midnight cleanse!

Sleep in later!

I’m not pregnant!

Take kids to school!  See new class and teacher, get to be excited and present as a parent!

I have a job!

I have people to come to my rescue!

I can drink at work!

I have a new car to scrape up!

Supportive husband!

Supportive family!

Free, prepared, delicious dinner!

Quality kid time!

Get love from a devoted kitty!

I guess it’s all in how we look at it right?

Good night y’all.  Here’s to a less eventful tomorrow.



Catching Up



I have gotten too out of the habit of posting.  I miss me, don’t you?  I need to be funny again.  Quit being so pissy.  So let’s give it a whirl.

“Mom, I like Dad better because he is super awesome and I love him.”

Eye roll.  “Thanks G.  I like him too.”

“And he’s funnier than you too.”

“Shut the front door girlfriend.  He may be cooler and funner (shut it spell check, it’s a word) and smarter, but there is no freakin way he’s funnier.”

“Yep, he is.  I love him.”

The best dad ever.  He gives me unicorns for my birthday!

The best dad ever. He gives me unicorns for my birthday!

This from the girl who at dinner prayers this evening, she thanked God for giving her unicorns for her birthday.  This is because Mark and I are having a crisis of organized religion at the moment and figure we should at least introduce our kids to the God we want them to know.  So let’s start by thanking Him for our food.  This went fairly well until Bear blurts out, “Thank you for our food…and our pee pees.”   But I guess what guy doesn’t thank God for his pee pee?  He’s starting early.

Ah, privates.  My kids are obsessed with them.  I am not sure why.  Their age?  Is that all they talk about in summer camp?  I don’t know, I feel like I should worry, but it’s hard not to get the giggles when your son is taking your homegrown yellow squash and holding it up to his pants and waving it around like it’s some sad tired version of Florida.

I try to keep the potty words to a minimum.  I do, I swear.  But if I leave them to their own devices for more than 30 seconds, the conversation always turns to pee and poop and then loud guffawing.  That’s right, my kids guffaw.   It’s the best sound in the world.  I think maybe this family does a bit too much guffawing.

School starts next week.  Ya HOO!  I say this because Bear just spent the summer with a bunch of young students serving as his day camp counselors.  Please don’t get me wrong, it’s been great, but when you have an ADHD kid, whom you’ve spent the past four years diagnosing, treating, therapying, studying, and lastly medicating, the last thing you want to hear at the end of the day is this question, “He’s kind of hyper, have you had him tested for ADHD?  I just took a class on it and he has all the classic signs.”  This from a 20 year old early education student, eyes gleaming with excitement that she has a real live crazy kid.  All ready to diagnose and treat.  Well have at it sister.  For the fourth time, yes, he’s medicated, no it’s not fool proof, and no the pill is not magic.  He’s going to have rough days.  Mondays after vacation for one.  When his schedule has been put in the blender and put on pulverize.  I don’t excuse his behavior, I just don’t know what to do with it in summer daycare.  We will tinker with the medicine again, just like we did last time.  Frankly, this isn’t the best setting for him either and I can’t fix that at the moment either.  Putting a 6 year old in an open room with a ton of other kids ranging from 1st to 6th graders, you’re going to get some hyperactivity.  Too much stimulation, not enough focusing.  It’s rough.  Combine that with a bunch of kids (them damn whipper snappers!) fresh out of college who 1) think I might be pregnant and aren’t afraid to ask, 2) only have textbook skills and not enough real life kid skills to handle my kid, and you have a big ole mess for a kid with sensory and ADHD issues.

Not sure what my alternatives are, but I’ll think of something.  He could always come to work with me, it’s nice and quiet there, but I don’t think the boss would go for it, and I think he’d be mighty disappointed to find out his mother got a college education to type other people’s 2-sentence thoughts for a living.

I don’t know, I have 9 months to figure it out.

And we can’t forget his sister, my adorable G, who merely tolerates me while her dad is away.  My baby, who’s getting her tonsils out on Wednesday and is none too happy about it.  This I don’t want to think about too hard because while it’s a routine procedure and I know more kids who’ve had it done than not, it’s still making me nauseous on a fairly constant basis because this one is MY baby.  So, I have the house stocked with ice cream, popsicles, pudding and jello in hopes it will all go smoothly, which means my diet* is taking a headfirst dive into the crapper this week.  Plus, I found some Thin Mints in my co-worker’s office fridge this week.  Stress eating?  Don’t mind if I do.

Alright, that’s about it for this round.  What have we learned?

Look how freakin happy we are.

Look how freakin happy we are. Thank God Dad’s arm is so long or else we’d have to talk to a stranger.


G likes Dad better.

We are finding God.  One who likes gay people and isn’t so judgy and wholesome.

My kids two favorites things right now are penises and unicorns.

School is starting! Yay! because Day Camp + Pandemonium + Young Students who think I’m pregnant = One long fat summer.

Tonsils come out Wednesday.  Pray those are where the whiny tones are stored.

Good night y’all.  See, I can say this because my husband’s in Texas.

Lastly, one fun thing I learned this week:  Buck Knuckle.  This is a dude’s version of camel toe.  Cracks me up.  Thanks Anchorman 2.  I can’t wait.    And I wonder why my kids are so weird.

*Diet:  A term I like to throw out there every now and again to make people think I am actually trying to get thinner.