Last night could have been a really fun evening, complete with dancing and socializing with friends. But NNNNOOOOOO!!!!! My oldest daughter, Sophie, became a walking, blubbering mess of snot and tears. Right when Mommy starts to have fun it is time to leave. It was our annual Danceforce banquet, where we honor dancers who have been truly outstanding over the past year. It is funny, emotional, and--alright, I admit it--a tad LONG. But we were served dinner, there are plenty of kids for mine to play with that they know.
After doing the harsh mom whisper, "KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF!!" to no avail, it was my turn to stand in front of my colleagues and students and present. I eyeballed Sophie who kept getting up, directly in front of the videographer taping the evening's sentimental moments. I watched Daddy reprimand her 457 times before she finally got it, meaning she was scared into submission, perhaps with the threat of grounding or dragging her by her hair into the kitchen to wash dishes. Her long, sad face looked as if someone killed her puppy. She is more melodramatic than a week's worth of Tivo'd Days of Our Lives.
After standing up front for 40 minutes in my 4-inch super cute, pale peach, patent leather heels, which feel decent for about 38 minutes, it was time to DANCE. Play that funky music, white boy! And cue weepy, moody, 8 year-old temper tantrum.
Sophie: "Mooooommmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!! I am sooooooo tiiiiiiiiired! Can we please just GOOOOO HOOOME?!!"
Me: "Don't you want to dance? Your sister is having fun! So are all your friends. C'mon, just for a little while."
Depart Sophie, complete with dramatic sighing and stomping and evil glare.
Re-enter Sophie, cheeks red and blotchy, tears streaming, even more evil glare.
Sophie: "We are going home NOW! I don't want to be here. I wanna go HOOOOOOOOOOOME!!"
Me: "No, I want to stay a little longer. Just go sit down for a little while."
Exit drama queen with most evil glare. Mommy sighs and sips vodka tonic, getting back to teacher talk and gossip.
Re-enter Sophie accompanied by older dancer/babysitter for dramatic license. I take back former observation, NOW most evil glare EVER. What am I, Satan?
Sophie: "We are leaving NOW! I said I wanna go home!!!! I am sooooooo tired! And you are so MEAN!"
Me: "You are totally killing Mommy's buzz but FIIIIINE. Now that the fun has finally started, we will go home because, as usual, you are getting your way."
Yes, I am Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest but sometimes I need to feel selfish. Sue me, don't tell me you do not hate how your kids disrupt every aspect of your life once in awhile. It's just that the few times I have to take my kids somewhere (read: no babysitter) where I can actually kick it on the dance floor, have a drinkie-poo, and chill it is always time to kick it staight into patient mommy mode, complete with understanding, love, and ability to shut this party down for the sake of my children's rest. Screw that. Next time I will be securing a sitter. And more comfortable shoes.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Surely You Can't Be Serious
Yes, I am serious, and stop calling me Shirley..... I am a raging goofball. It is hard for me to be at all serious in my daily life. I am sarcastic, silly, and inappropriate. And this quality unfortunately carries through in my parenting of my two daughters. This is quickly proving to bite me in the ass on a daily basis.
I am now a parent and as I stand in my Mommy shoes, I recall times when dad would get SO irritated at me and my brother. We were just being giggly kids, laughing at stupid shit that seemed so hilarious we could laugh till we drooled. My dad was goofy, funny, and not very serious when I was a kid. (Except when he found a pile of empty Boone's Farm and Sun Country Wine Cooler bottles near the wood pile when I was 18..) He used to turn dinner into a "three ring circus", as my mom called it. It drove her damn near crazy. But I LOVE that my dad was so silly and funny all the time. I learned my sense of humor from him. I recall a time when we were camping. My brother, Andy, and I were on this rant saying "Tootie" in reference to a character on that douche-bag show, The Facts of Life. We just kept repeating it over and over and over. Finally my dad snapped, "It's JUST not funny anymore!!! Knock it off!!" We shut up, stunned by his volume. I have a loud voice but man, my dad could BELLOW when he was pissed. As we sat in stunned silence in our pop-up camper, we heard my dad utter softly, "Tootie!" After cooling off he clearly recognized the hilarity in that one little word.
So last night we were driving with the kids in the car. We went to a Japanese restaurant and the kids ate dutifully, Sophie with her teriyaki chicken and Isabella with her salmon and a few pieces of sushi. As we lengthened the evening with a couple of errands, the girls went into a fit of bugging each other and giggling. Poking, touching, tickling, stealing toys, and squealing like baby pigs. My migraine soon erupted and made Mommy mega-irritable. Then the spazzed-out laughter began. Don't even know what it was about, it just was annoying as all holy hell. And every time we told them to quiet down/knock it off/shut their pie-holes it just got worse. I glared at Sophie and she was drooling, her eyes were watering and rolling back into her head. She is a very special child. What in the hell was so God damn funny?! Then it struck me. I have switched roles with my dad. The exact same shit that I found hilarious enough to make me piss myself was making my own daughters do the same (nearly). If my head hadn't been pounding I probably would have cracked a smile.
The giggles and squealing with silliness continued after we got home. I yelled, I threatened, I lost it. Every time I threatened punishment for a day, week, etc. it was clear I would not be taken seriously. Damn it. This is what I get for being the funny mom. Every thing I say is a big, fat joke. I really tout how cool it is to have a fun mom. I think life would be boring if my kids didn't have a mom who teased them, was sarcastic, and made things silly whenever I could to lighten the mood. And having two dramatic daughters who are not even in the pre-teen years yet, trust me when I say the mood needs to be lightened a LOT.
I will continue to be crazy and silly with my children. It's just in my blood, I can't help it. But if I need a stern word or two and my husband's out of town, can one of you come over to my house? My kids aren't buying my schpiel when they know I've got two Whoopee Cushions stashed on the shelf for mornings when they need a farty wake-up.
I am now a parent and as I stand in my Mommy shoes, I recall times when dad would get SO irritated at me and my brother. We were just being giggly kids, laughing at stupid shit that seemed so hilarious we could laugh till we drooled. My dad was goofy, funny, and not very serious when I was a kid. (Except when he found a pile of empty Boone's Farm and Sun Country Wine Cooler bottles near the wood pile when I was 18..) He used to turn dinner into a "three ring circus", as my mom called it. It drove her damn near crazy. But I LOVE that my dad was so silly and funny all the time. I learned my sense of humor from him. I recall a time when we were camping. My brother, Andy, and I were on this rant saying "Tootie" in reference to a character on that douche-bag show, The Facts of Life. We just kept repeating it over and over and over. Finally my dad snapped, "It's JUST not funny anymore!!! Knock it off!!" We shut up, stunned by his volume. I have a loud voice but man, my dad could BELLOW when he was pissed. As we sat in stunned silence in our pop-up camper, we heard my dad utter softly, "Tootie!" After cooling off he clearly recognized the hilarity in that one little word.
So last night we were driving with the kids in the car. We went to a Japanese restaurant and the kids ate dutifully, Sophie with her teriyaki chicken and Isabella with her salmon and a few pieces of sushi. As we lengthened the evening with a couple of errands, the girls went into a fit of bugging each other and giggling. Poking, touching, tickling, stealing toys, and squealing like baby pigs. My migraine soon erupted and made Mommy mega-irritable. Then the spazzed-out laughter began. Don't even know what it was about, it just was annoying as all holy hell. And every time we told them to quiet down/knock it off/shut their pie-holes it just got worse. I glared at Sophie and she was drooling, her eyes were watering and rolling back into her head. She is a very special child. What in the hell was so God damn funny?! Then it struck me. I have switched roles with my dad. The exact same shit that I found hilarious enough to make me piss myself was making my own daughters do the same (nearly). If my head hadn't been pounding I probably would have cracked a smile.
The giggles and squealing with silliness continued after we got home. I yelled, I threatened, I lost it. Every time I threatened punishment for a day, week, etc. it was clear I would not be taken seriously. Damn it. This is what I get for being the funny mom. Every thing I say is a big, fat joke. I really tout how cool it is to have a fun mom. I think life would be boring if my kids didn't have a mom who teased them, was sarcastic, and made things silly whenever I could to lighten the mood. And having two dramatic daughters who are not even in the pre-teen years yet, trust me when I say the mood needs to be lightened a LOT.
I will continue to be crazy and silly with my children. It's just in my blood, I can't help it. But if I need a stern word or two and my husband's out of town, can one of you come over to my house? My kids aren't buying my schpiel when they know I've got two Whoopee Cushions stashed on the shelf for mornings when they need a farty wake-up.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Excuse Me, Are You Corey Hart?!
There are an inordinate amount of people who think it is socially acceptable to wear their sunglasses indoors, where there is only the mere brightness of florescent lights. The only time you are within your rights to do this is when your eyes have been dilated at the optometrist. Other than that, get the hell over yourself. No one is that cool. (Slight disclaimer: if you are wearing your sunglasses on TOP of your head, say as a headband, then that is fine. They are serving another purpose beside shielding your eyes from your throngs of fans. Please...)
It reminds me of the 80's song, "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night" by Corey Hart. Except it's not the 80's, you are NOT Corey hart nor one of the dancers from his video, and it's 10 o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday at Target. Bitch, I think your eyes have adjusted from the glaring sun of that parking lot by now (it's not the frickin' Sahara Desert...).
I will cut you slack if I happen to see you when your Transitions Lenses have not yet faded out. But if you are Miss Crazy Magenta Frames with Blue Blocker lenses who was doing chest exercises at Lifetime Fitness, you seemed to be disillusioned that you are Paris Hilton trying to be incognito when you shop at Walmart. Trust me, no one gives a shit WHO you are. And why don't you add about 10 more pounds on those presses, Flab-O-Tronic Arms?
I also can't stand women who wear more hair products than all of the Robert Palmer back-up dancers combined. (For those of you born after the 80's, you might not get that reference..) There's a lady who comes to kickboxing with her Farrah Fawcett flip hairdo, which she clearly spent 1 1/2 hours styling, then she hops around in her camouflage cargos and sweats like a pig. Then she looks like a soggy, 50-year-old Farrah Fawcett. Not a great visual. Throw that Frost and Tip mane into a pony tail and call it a day.
Other looks that suck:
*Low rise jeans on really big girls whose ass cracks peek out the back waistband like a gremlin at a Halloween House of Horrors
*Mom Jeans, which are most often soft, faded blue denim and at least touch the nipples with their high-waisted, "I'm an easy-going mom with an active lifestyle" look. Also known as Nipple Highs
*Jellies. These are the plastic shoes that made your feet sweat and blisters form on your pinkie toes as soon as you slipped them on. If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about please peruse the dollar section of Target.
*Anything that reminds me of the 90's, when I was in college. Big, baggy t-shirts and leggings, plaid flannel shirts, Doc Martens shoes. Untweezed eyebrows and matte red lipstick are two looks I enjoyed but no one stopped to slap me for.
*platform, non-descript black loafers from Steve Madden. Ugh, so over that look.
I don't know who died and made me the Fashion Police, I just enjoy making casual observations. And like you all don't think it but just don't say it!!
On an unrelated note, I also am driven insane by all the different sizes restaurants use to denote small, medium, and large for their beverages. We went to Cosi the other day and there was Grande (small, of course) and GIGANDE for a large. No medium. The name GIGANDE was so over the top and flamboyant that was just no room or need for a medium size. And the man ringing it up loved to say it, perhaps he was Mr. Gigande himself (don't ALL guys think they are???). I totally made fun of him.
"Ma'am, would you like a grande or a GI-GAN-TAY iced tea?"
"You know you just love to say that and that's precisely why you asked me."
"Well, yes. It IS fun to say."
"And don't call me ma'am. My mother is a ma'am. I am a hot milf with perky boobs who wears t-shirts that are highly inappropriate for my age but I KNOW you love THAT..." ...Okay, so I just thought about saying that line.
It reminds me of the 80's song, "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night" by Corey Hart. Except it's not the 80's, you are NOT Corey hart nor one of the dancers from his video, and it's 10 o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday at Target. Bitch, I think your eyes have adjusted from the glaring sun of that parking lot by now (it's not the frickin' Sahara Desert...).
I will cut you slack if I happen to see you when your Transitions Lenses have not yet faded out. But if you are Miss Crazy Magenta Frames with Blue Blocker lenses who was doing chest exercises at Lifetime Fitness, you seemed to be disillusioned that you are Paris Hilton trying to be incognito when you shop at Walmart. Trust me, no one gives a shit WHO you are. And why don't you add about 10 more pounds on those presses, Flab-O-Tronic Arms?
I also can't stand women who wear more hair products than all of the Robert Palmer back-up dancers combined. (For those of you born after the 80's, you might not get that reference..) There's a lady who comes to kickboxing with her Farrah Fawcett flip hairdo, which she clearly spent 1 1/2 hours styling, then she hops around in her camouflage cargos and sweats like a pig. Then she looks like a soggy, 50-year-old Farrah Fawcett. Not a great visual. Throw that Frost and Tip mane into a pony tail and call it a day.
Other looks that suck:
*Low rise jeans on really big girls whose ass cracks peek out the back waistband like a gremlin at a Halloween House of Horrors
*Mom Jeans, which are most often soft, faded blue denim and at least touch the nipples with their high-waisted, "I'm an easy-going mom with an active lifestyle" look. Also known as Nipple Highs
*Jellies. These are the plastic shoes that made your feet sweat and blisters form on your pinkie toes as soon as you slipped them on. If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about please peruse the dollar section of Target.
*Anything that reminds me of the 90's, when I was in college. Big, baggy t-shirts and leggings, plaid flannel shirts, Doc Martens shoes. Untweezed eyebrows and matte red lipstick are two looks I enjoyed but no one stopped to slap me for.
*platform, non-descript black loafers from Steve Madden. Ugh, so over that look.
I don't know who died and made me the Fashion Police, I just enjoy making casual observations. And like you all don't think it but just don't say it!!
On an unrelated note, I also am driven insane by all the different sizes restaurants use to denote small, medium, and large for their beverages. We went to Cosi the other day and there was Grande (small, of course) and GIGANDE for a large. No medium. The name GIGANDE was so over the top and flamboyant that was just no room or need for a medium size. And the man ringing it up loved to say it, perhaps he was Mr. Gigande himself (don't ALL guys think they are???). I totally made fun of him.
"Ma'am, would you like a grande or a GI-GAN-TAY iced tea?"
"You know you just love to say that and that's precisely why you asked me."
"Well, yes. It IS fun to say."
"And don't call me ma'am. My mother is a ma'am. I am a hot milf with perky boobs who wears t-shirts that are highly inappropriate for my age but I KNOW you love THAT..." ...Okay, so I just thought about saying that line.
We Are Family
Me, Mom, and Andy at Andy and Keisha's wedding rehearsal. Didn't mean for my boobs to box her head in like bookends but it happens. Easy to see Andy and I get our height from our dad, huh?
We have now merged two funny, diverse, and glorious families together. Andy and Keisha were married on May 9th and it was a blasty-blast of a wedding. (What am I, Dane Cook?!) It's just such a warm and fuzzy feeling in the cockles of your heart, wherever the heck they are, from the whole event. People you either haven't seen in YEARS or that haven't seen each other in years, all blended in one room, doing botty poppin' dance moves to "It's Time for the Perculator" and "Whoop, There It Is!". Brings a tear to my eye. More wedding pics to come, don't you worry....
Friday, May 23, 2008
Barf-field Zoo
I was chosen via the rigorous lottery system at Liberty Elementary to be a designated chaperone on the 2nd grade field trip to the Brookfield Zoo. This is old hat to me, seeing that our family has a membership to the zoo and I was also a chaperone last year. No big deal. (Well, to Sophie, who claims I NEVER volunteer for anything in her class. Not true, I mentioned the lottery and it's for real. At this age, every damn mom in the class longs to chaperone field trips, organize crafts, and plan games/crafts/goodie bags for holiday parties. It's not like we're getting to be Madonna's personal assistants for a day. We are hanging out with the same kids who drive us to the brink of insanity as soon as that bell rings at the end of the day...)
So I got to school and filed in with the 2nd graders. Sophie wavered between excitement that I was coming with her class and disdain that I was hopelessly uncool. The mind of an 8 year-old is more complex than you think. I was assigned 5 girls to supervise, listed on my handy note with a map of the zoo and emergency cell phone number of the teacher. Just in case something bad happens. What could happen on a simple trip to the zoo? I donned my overstuffed backpack, heavy with 5 kids lunches plus my own, and headed towards transportation.
The bus ride was cramped and loud. I didn't know 2nd graders knew "We Will Rock You" by Queen so well, complete with clapping and stomping. I was crammed into a seat with my daughter and another child who decided touching and tickling me was hilarious. I was not laughing. At all. We tried to decipher the blurry photocopied map and decide where we should start. Of course, my least favorite animal of the entire zoo, which scares the piss out of me with it's creepy-crawliness, is the bat. The bat house was chosen to see if it would cause me to freak. Damn I hate bats.
Other than reeking of piss and shit, most of the exhibits did not make me freak or even flinch. Well maybe the Pachyderm House, which made me realize that male rhinos not only have really wide, short penises but they use their appendage like a firehose to spray their own urine wherever they damn well please. This results in an odor that is rank, pungent, and will make you tear up quicker than Paula Abdul when George Michael sings. The bats stunk, too, but I was relieved to see they were behind a metal mesh wall. No drama from me, much to Sophie's dismay.
The kids acted like they hadn't eaten in three days so we had to scramble to find a picnic tables. We were now a group of 9 kids and two adults, having merged with another group. The kids mostly ate their lunches until they discovered wandering geese who were more eager for their leftovers than I was to get the hell away from those bats. One little girl layed her head on the table, ate little, and declared she had a stomach ache. Uh-oh. That is NEVER good. Field trips and stomach aches bring me back to one vivid memory...
First grade. Field trip to the planetarium. A boy I will identify as Mike sat by me and ate his lunch. His mom packed Cheese Nips, a bologna sandwich, and red Kool-Aid. But she didn't own a thermos so she put the Kool-Aid in an empty peanut butter jar. Nice touch. My meal was irrelevant, just note Mike's mid-day meal selections. We filed silently into the planetarium. We were seated closely to our classmates. It was pitch black. Dead silent. Then Mike spewed his lunch in a gagging wretch extravaganza one seat away from me. Do you know what Cheeze Nips, red Kool-Aid, and bologna on Wonder Bread smell like when barfed up? It makes you gag a little bit just thinking about it, doesn't it? And guess what? We had to sit through a 45 minute solar system presentation as the tangy smell of puke wafted to everyone's nostrils. The fact that there was not a massive peristaltic domino effect of gagging, and chunk-blowing was miraculous, like fat-free Pringles miraculous. But back to the zoo..
This little girl began to get pale, then a little green. Her mom, a chaperone, waited for a call from her husband to pick them up. We had to use the "emergency number" to reach the teacher, located with her group half way across the park. We merged, decided to combine my group, her group, and the strays from the fleeing chaperone's group. Then her daughter went Yack-O-Matic in front of us all. The teacher turned away quickly, stating she doesn't do well with puke or the mere sight, smell, or mention of it. One down, group of 13 giggling girls and two adults to go.
We struggled to choose our next exhibit as thirteen 2nd graders cannot compromise well, especially with kids who have slightly dominant personalities (i.e. my Sophie). The shyer girls were quiet but visibly annoyed with the choices being made. Speak up, you little pussies. Sophie became Supreme Dictator and declared we were trekking to see the wolves. We got there and guess what we saw? No damn wolves. The girls became enthralled with the room in which you can hear howls of would-be wolves. One little girl sat on the ground since she complained of a tummy ache since witnessing the last hurl session. I no sooner heard the "Don't Do Well With Puke" speech from the teacher when I glanced to our little sitting princess. Her stomach started doing rolls not unlike the way my cats prepare to blow a hairball on my dresser. With a wince on her face, she blew her lunch like a fine textured, orange Glidden paint all over 5 square feet of the entryway floor. Are you KIDDING me??!! The teacher took her immediately outside and I had approximately 58 seconds before the Wolf Howl Posse broke free of their room to cover the evidence of more puke. Paper towels? Zoo staff? Squeegee for Christ's sake?!! Nope. So I grabbed a trash can, ripped the plastic bag free and layed it on top of the chunks 'o' fun. I placed the trash can on top of it and vowed to notify a park staff member as soon as I saw one. As the squealing remainder of 2nd graders with normal stomach functions busted out of the exhibit, we gathered to leave. Then came a rush of more field trippers, stampeding in the room as if they were going to get to pet a real wolf. Suckers. They were knocking the trash can about and stepping in the pile of yack, despite my best efforts to warn them. Fuck it, I'm out. If they slip and slide in it, so be it.
Two more girls declared they had stomach aches now. Did someone lick their hands after taking a dump? I mean, seriously folks. Stomach flu does not jump from one person to the next that fast. I ran to a gift shop and scored some plastic bags and paper towels from a sympathetic clerk. She tried to give me tips on how to avoid motions sickness.
"Just keep looking at the horizon!!! Don't watch things passing by, it will make you sick!" Thanks, Granny. Little too late but thanks. After water breaks, dry heaving from a couple kids, and a slow-ass walk back to the buses, we fearfully boarded for our journey home. Would there be more puking? Some kids huddled next to the bus drivers trash can. Others cradled the plastic bags I got. I noted the "Bodily Fluid Waste Removal" box above the driver. Let's call it like it is, sister. It's "Bye-Bye Hurl In A Box", now isn't it? All I can say is "We will, we will BLOW CHUNKS!!!" I'm not entering the lottery next year.
So I got to school and filed in with the 2nd graders. Sophie wavered between excitement that I was coming with her class and disdain that I was hopelessly uncool. The mind of an 8 year-old is more complex than you think. I was assigned 5 girls to supervise, listed on my handy note with a map of the zoo and emergency cell phone number of the teacher. Just in case something bad happens. What could happen on a simple trip to the zoo? I donned my overstuffed backpack, heavy with 5 kids lunches plus my own, and headed towards transportation.
The bus ride was cramped and loud. I didn't know 2nd graders knew "We Will Rock You" by Queen so well, complete with clapping and stomping. I was crammed into a seat with my daughter and another child who decided touching and tickling me was hilarious. I was not laughing. At all. We tried to decipher the blurry photocopied map and decide where we should start. Of course, my least favorite animal of the entire zoo, which scares the piss out of me with it's creepy-crawliness, is the bat. The bat house was chosen to see if it would cause me to freak. Damn I hate bats.
Other than reeking of piss and shit, most of the exhibits did not make me freak or even flinch. Well maybe the Pachyderm House, which made me realize that male rhinos not only have really wide, short penises but they use their appendage like a firehose to spray their own urine wherever they damn well please. This results in an odor that is rank, pungent, and will make you tear up quicker than Paula Abdul when George Michael sings. The bats stunk, too, but I was relieved to see they were behind a metal mesh wall. No drama from me, much to Sophie's dismay.
The kids acted like they hadn't eaten in three days so we had to scramble to find a picnic tables. We were now a group of 9 kids and two adults, having merged with another group. The kids mostly ate their lunches until they discovered wandering geese who were more eager for their leftovers than I was to get the hell away from those bats. One little girl layed her head on the table, ate little, and declared she had a stomach ache. Uh-oh. That is NEVER good. Field trips and stomach aches bring me back to one vivid memory...
First grade. Field trip to the planetarium. A boy I will identify as Mike sat by me and ate his lunch. His mom packed Cheese Nips, a bologna sandwich, and red Kool-Aid. But she didn't own a thermos so she put the Kool-Aid in an empty peanut butter jar. Nice touch. My meal was irrelevant, just note Mike's mid-day meal selections. We filed silently into the planetarium. We were seated closely to our classmates. It was pitch black. Dead silent. Then Mike spewed his lunch in a gagging wretch extravaganza one seat away from me. Do you know what Cheeze Nips, red Kool-Aid, and bologna on Wonder Bread smell like when barfed up? It makes you gag a little bit just thinking about it, doesn't it? And guess what? We had to sit through a 45 minute solar system presentation as the tangy smell of puke wafted to everyone's nostrils. The fact that there was not a massive peristaltic domino effect of gagging, and chunk-blowing was miraculous, like fat-free Pringles miraculous. But back to the zoo..
This little girl began to get pale, then a little green. Her mom, a chaperone, waited for a call from her husband to pick them up. We had to use the "emergency number" to reach the teacher, located with her group half way across the park. We merged, decided to combine my group, her group, and the strays from the fleeing chaperone's group. Then her daughter went Yack-O-Matic in front of us all. The teacher turned away quickly, stating she doesn't do well with puke or the mere sight, smell, or mention of it. One down, group of 13 giggling girls and two adults to go.
We struggled to choose our next exhibit as thirteen 2nd graders cannot compromise well, especially with kids who have slightly dominant personalities (i.e. my Sophie). The shyer girls were quiet but visibly annoyed with the choices being made. Speak up, you little pussies. Sophie became Supreme Dictator and declared we were trekking to see the wolves. We got there and guess what we saw? No damn wolves. The girls became enthralled with the room in which you can hear howls of would-be wolves. One little girl sat on the ground since she complained of a tummy ache since witnessing the last hurl session. I no sooner heard the "Don't Do Well With Puke" speech from the teacher when I glanced to our little sitting princess. Her stomach started doing rolls not unlike the way my cats prepare to blow a hairball on my dresser. With a wince on her face, she blew her lunch like a fine textured, orange Glidden paint all over 5 square feet of the entryway floor. Are you KIDDING me??!! The teacher took her immediately outside and I had approximately 58 seconds before the Wolf Howl Posse broke free of their room to cover the evidence of more puke. Paper towels? Zoo staff? Squeegee for Christ's sake?!! Nope. So I grabbed a trash can, ripped the plastic bag free and layed it on top of the chunks 'o' fun. I placed the trash can on top of it and vowed to notify a park staff member as soon as I saw one. As the squealing remainder of 2nd graders with normal stomach functions busted out of the exhibit, we gathered to leave. Then came a rush of more field trippers, stampeding in the room as if they were going to get to pet a real wolf. Suckers. They were knocking the trash can about and stepping in the pile of yack, despite my best efforts to warn them. Fuck it, I'm out. If they slip and slide in it, so be it.
Two more girls declared they had stomach aches now. Did someone lick their hands after taking a dump? I mean, seriously folks. Stomach flu does not jump from one person to the next that fast. I ran to a gift shop and scored some plastic bags and paper towels from a sympathetic clerk. She tried to give me tips on how to avoid motions sickness.
"Just keep looking at the horizon!!! Don't watch things passing by, it will make you sick!" Thanks, Granny. Little too late but thanks. After water breaks, dry heaving from a couple kids, and a slow-ass walk back to the buses, we fearfully boarded for our journey home. Would there be more puking? Some kids huddled next to the bus drivers trash can. Others cradled the plastic bags I got. I noted the "Bodily Fluid Waste Removal" box above the driver. Let's call it like it is, sister. It's "Bye-Bye Hurl In A Box", now isn't it? All I can say is "We will, we will BLOW CHUNKS!!!" I'm not entering the lottery next year.
Friday, May 16, 2008
I Am a "Whoo-Hooo" Girl
In life there are women who are Whoo-Hooo Girls or they are not. This means a female individual who will utter the phrase "WHOOOO-HOOOOO!!!" when solicited by a leader. It could be a fitness instructor ("Only five more reps! Whooo-hooo!") or the lead singer of your favorite band ("Let's rock this house, Chicago! Whooooo-hooooo!!"). It is a sign that you are into the moment, that you are pumped at the energy level and vibe of the scene.
Now there are varying degrees of being a Whoo-Hoo Girl. If you feel particularly timid in eliciting a Whoo-hoo spontaneously, you may require Whoo-Hoo Intervention Aid. This is also known as booze. EVERY woman is a Whoo-Hoo girl after she's been drinking. And if you don't drink, then you better get over your fear of looking like an ass and scream "Whoo-hooo!" with your crowd of drunk-ass lady friends. In spin class today I was the lone Whoo-Hoo-er for some time before people woke up. I like yelling it, it motivates me and at least makes people smile to see SOMEONE'S excited to be there. Heather, our instructor, is a major Whoo-Hoo Girl. I think it's in their fitness contract or maybe they take a course in it. I'm pretty sure she has a master's degree because she could make a deaf, little old lady Whoo-hoo.
There are places it is inappropriate to give a big Whoo-hoo. Like church, for example. If you finally GET what father is saying in his 35 minute sermon, just give God a special prayer of gratitude. If you are at a concert and the lead singer is speaking emotionally or starts singing a love ballad, just know your obnoxious, drunk-off-your-ass-from-Miller-Light Whoo-Hoo is what will be heard on the live CD version of this conert. Which they are recording tonight. Don't laugh, when you sober up you will realize you should have kept your big yapper shut. (You think I'm kidding here? I have a very beautiful concert CD from a band called Dead Can Dance. There is some drunk bitch who RUINS a tender moment by cackling "Whyeeeeoooo-hoooooo!!" in the middle of my favorite song. I hope she puked in her purse and was hung over for three days from that little stunt.) When you are at the altar and have just said, "I do", don't cap it off by a big "Whoo-hoo". Unless you are on that show, My White Trash Wedding. Then by all means belt it out because the rest of the trailer park is about to beat you to the punch. Enjoy that Krispy Kreme wedding cake, darlin'.
I think most people fall into the I'm On The Fence Whoo-Hoo Girls. They can't commit to it. If 8 or more women seem to be screaming it then, hell, why not chime in? But you certainly aren't going to START all that commotion. You wouldn't want to cause a SCENE. It is Kickbox Jam class, you are sweating like a pig to 50 Cent songs, and dancing like a stripper, would a medium octave Whoo-Hoo kill ya'? Let it out, sister!! Tomorrow I am taking a two-hour Kickbox Jam/Hip Hop class. I guarantee there will be some major Whoo-Hooing going on. There better be or I will have to make people do shots of Whoo-Whoo Intervention Aid in the locker room.WHHHOOOOOOO-HHHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!
Now there are varying degrees of being a Whoo-Hoo Girl. If you feel particularly timid in eliciting a Whoo-hoo spontaneously, you may require Whoo-Hoo Intervention Aid. This is also known as booze. EVERY woman is a Whoo-Hoo girl after she's been drinking. And if you don't drink, then you better get over your fear of looking like an ass and scream "Whoo-hooo!" with your crowd of drunk-ass lady friends. In spin class today I was the lone Whoo-Hoo-er for some time before people woke up. I like yelling it, it motivates me and at least makes people smile to see SOMEONE'S excited to be there. Heather, our instructor, is a major Whoo-Hoo Girl. I think it's in their fitness contract or maybe they take a course in it. I'm pretty sure she has a master's degree because she could make a deaf, little old lady Whoo-hoo.
There are places it is inappropriate to give a big Whoo-hoo. Like church, for example. If you finally GET what father is saying in his 35 minute sermon, just give God a special prayer of gratitude. If you are at a concert and the lead singer is speaking emotionally or starts singing a love ballad, just know your obnoxious, drunk-off-your-ass-from-Miller-Light Whoo-Hoo is what will be heard on the live CD version of this conert. Which they are recording tonight. Don't laugh, when you sober up you will realize you should have kept your big yapper shut. (You think I'm kidding here? I have a very beautiful concert CD from a band called Dead Can Dance. There is some drunk bitch who RUINS a tender moment by cackling "Whyeeeeoooo-hoooooo!!" in the middle of my favorite song. I hope she puked in her purse and was hung over for three days from that little stunt.) When you are at the altar and have just said, "I do", don't cap it off by a big "Whoo-hoo". Unless you are on that show, My White Trash Wedding. Then by all means belt it out because the rest of the trailer park is about to beat you to the punch. Enjoy that Krispy Kreme wedding cake, darlin'.
I think most people fall into the I'm On The Fence Whoo-Hoo Girls. They can't commit to it. If 8 or more women seem to be screaming it then, hell, why not chime in? But you certainly aren't going to START all that commotion. You wouldn't want to cause a SCENE. It is Kickbox Jam class, you are sweating like a pig to 50 Cent songs, and dancing like a stripper, would a medium octave Whoo-Hoo kill ya'? Let it out, sister!! Tomorrow I am taking a two-hour Kickbox Jam/Hip Hop class. I guarantee there will be some major Whoo-Hooing going on. There better be or I will have to make people do shots of Whoo-Whoo Intervention Aid in the locker room.WHHHOOOOOOO-HHHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Not MY Child!!!!!!
Dear God in Holy Heaven, Isabella threw the Mother of All Temper Tantrums tonight. I witnessed a couple of toddlers throwing themselves on the ground at the gym recently and I recall thinking, "Been there, done that! I am so happy to be long out of that phase!" I can no longer think so freely and optimistically because apparently my 5 3/4 year-old has regressed to acting like a 2 year-old. Hardcore....
I decided it would be loads of educational fun to head to Borders bookstore to spend the gift card Sophie received from Grandma and Grandpa for her birthday. Loads and loads. Well it turned out to be a load of horse shit and I'll tell you why. I told Isabella that even though she did not have a nifty $20 gift card to spend, she was allowed to buy one small book that she could read to me or with me. No sticker books, no paper dolls, no craft books, no pop-up books, no baby board books, and for the love of sweet Baby Jesus, NO FUCKING STUFFED ANIMALS. I will never understand why all stores, from grocery to sporting goods, feel the need to have displays of over-priced, useless stuffed animals all over the damn place. I have recently filled at least three giant Hefty bags with nearly new stuffed animals that were played with for 10 minutes or less in the time my kids owned them (days, months, years) and donated them to our daycare where the kids go when I teach dance. We don't need one more Webkinz, Beanie Baby, or the cutest little baby pink reindeer that blows kisses. Fuck stuffed animals, they are pointless, useless, and a big waste of money.
Of COURSE Isabella forgot Mommy's rule and demanded I buy her either a "really cheap" stuffed puppy or a reindeer that "only costs three dollars even though the tag fell off--bit I KNOW it's only three dollars!!!". Hellzzzzzzzzzz nnnoooooooo!!! Welcome to Temper Tantrumville! I am your host, Crazy Mom! I will guide you through this treacherous journey of crying, gagging, and screaming. Hold on to your fucking hats because this is going to be a long, bumpy ride!!
Isabella, "But I really want a stuffed animal! Pleeeeeease?!"
Mommy, "No."
Isabella, "Why NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOT?!" {begin gratuitous flow of tears}
Mommy, "Because I told you you may not have a stuffed animal, only a small book."
Isabella, "You never said that!"
Mommy, "Yes I did."
Isabella, "Well I didn't hear you!!" {voice bordering on hysteria}
Mommy, "Go pick out a book now. I am ready to leave."
Isabella, "There are NO books here!!!"
Mommy, "{deep breath, supressed growl} I think we are in a BOOK STORE and I see thousands of books."
Isabella, "They're all dumb."
Mommy, "You have five minutes then we are leaving."
tick tock tick tock tick tock...........
Isabella, "Can I please just have a stuffed animal?!"
Mommy, "Your time is up, you did not pick out a book, we are leaving."
Isabella, at the TOP of her lungs, "NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" She runs and grabs a book at random but I am standing my ground. Sorry, Tex, it's too late. I put the book down and try to get her to sit so she can chill and stop causing a scene better than when Sydney and Jane beat the shit out of each other on Melrose Place.
Envision flailing legs, kicking shoes, running away from Mommy every chance I get to grasp her wrist so she stays near me. I almost have her arm then she runs one way so I grab a handful of her hair. It was an accident but the little Hellspawn deserved it. I was so embarrassed, like I have never been with her, even as a two year-old!! Fuck me. She is screaming and gagging. I inform her she will still not be getting a book, she is now grounded for two more days (she fought so much with Sophie Sunday night that the two of them lost TV, computer, and playing with friend privileges for two days. Princess Crackhead is up to four days now.) She is screaming and writhing on the ground. I try to pick her up and she does the limp doll/seizuring boa constrictor maneuver. I place the pile of books I have lovingly picked out for myself down. I hand Sophie her giftcard and instruct her to pay by heself for her book. Isabella has taken off, shoeless, to hide from Mean Mommy Monster. Too bad she is sniffling and doing that hysterical gag whimper so she is easily found. I catch her and hoist her up like a live surfboard on her side. She is kicking me and display racks. She is howling and screaming, "But I found my book. I want my book!!!!" Just as we are about to hit the front door she lets out one more super high-pitched scream so the entire cafe full of people can no longer ignore me. They are looking at me thinking #1) Is she going to beat the shit out of that kid when she gets to the car? or #2) Can't she control that brat? A spastic 44 pound child is really hard to carry while you are trying to leave a store. I make it to the car and kindly warn her that if she runs away from me she will get hit by a car and get smooshed so she needs to park it while I find my damn keys. I had to call my mother to "talk me off the ledge", so to speak. Crazy thing is, I didn't want to hit her, I just ignored her.
So there we were, no books for me or Isabella, no Noodles and Company for dinner, and a bad headache. Grounding with no TV, computers, bike riding, or playing with friends for two MORE days. Ooohhh, I was pissed. I get it why moms just lose it and go ape-shit. It might not be cool or PC or legal, but I GET it. Parenting is a bitch some days. It's unfortunately not really a job you can quit and say, try another line of work. It's like being tied to the mob. You're in it for good 'cause you're family. Never go against the family. It's not like when you worked at the Gap and realized, "Gee, I don't really LIKE retail, just the clothes! I think I'll try computer game design!" It's more like, "Damn, this sucks. How long can I hold out without caving on that TV bit? Who exactly am I punishing here?! Where's that Pinot Grigio?!"
Tomorrow is another day. It most certainly cannot be worse. I will probably attempt to go back to Borders and get my books. But if I see a "Look out for this CRAZY Bitch" poster on the cafe bulletin board, it better have a picture of a certain shorty brunette I know and not yours truly. Or I will be the one throwing a temper tantrum in that Borders hizzle. I've got your stuffed animals right about here...
I decided it would be loads of educational fun to head to Borders bookstore to spend the gift card Sophie received from Grandma and Grandpa for her birthday. Loads and loads. Well it turned out to be a load of horse shit and I'll tell you why. I told Isabella that even though she did not have a nifty $20 gift card to spend, she was allowed to buy one small book that she could read to me or with me. No sticker books, no paper dolls, no craft books, no pop-up books, no baby board books, and for the love of sweet Baby Jesus, NO FUCKING STUFFED ANIMALS. I will never understand why all stores, from grocery to sporting goods, feel the need to have displays of over-priced, useless stuffed animals all over the damn place. I have recently filled at least three giant Hefty bags with nearly new stuffed animals that were played with for 10 minutes or less in the time my kids owned them (days, months, years) and donated them to our daycare where the kids go when I teach dance. We don't need one more Webkinz, Beanie Baby, or the cutest little baby pink reindeer that blows kisses. Fuck stuffed animals, they are pointless, useless, and a big waste of money.
Of COURSE Isabella forgot Mommy's rule and demanded I buy her either a "really cheap" stuffed puppy or a reindeer that "only costs three dollars even though the tag fell off--bit I KNOW it's only three dollars!!!". Hellzzzzzzzzzz nnnoooooooo!!! Welcome to Temper Tantrumville! I am your host, Crazy Mom! I will guide you through this treacherous journey of crying, gagging, and screaming. Hold on to your fucking hats because this is going to be a long, bumpy ride!!
Isabella, "But I really want a stuffed animal! Pleeeeeease?!"
Mommy, "No."
Isabella, "Why NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOT?!" {begin gratuitous flow of tears}
Mommy, "Because I told you you may not have a stuffed animal, only a small book."
Isabella, "You never said that!"
Mommy, "Yes I did."
Isabella, "Well I didn't hear you!!" {voice bordering on hysteria}
Mommy, "Go pick out a book now. I am ready to leave."
Isabella, "There are NO books here!!!"
Mommy, "{deep breath, supressed growl} I think we are in a BOOK STORE and I see thousands of books."
Isabella, "They're all dumb."
Mommy, "You have five minutes then we are leaving."
tick tock tick tock tick tock...........
Isabella, "Can I please just have a stuffed animal?!"
Mommy, "Your time is up, you did not pick out a book, we are leaving."
Isabella, at the TOP of her lungs, "NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" She runs and grabs a book at random but I am standing my ground. Sorry, Tex, it's too late. I put the book down and try to get her to sit so she can chill and stop causing a scene better than when Sydney and Jane beat the shit out of each other on Melrose Place.
Envision flailing legs, kicking shoes, running away from Mommy every chance I get to grasp her wrist so she stays near me. I almost have her arm then she runs one way so I grab a handful of her hair. It was an accident but the little Hellspawn deserved it. I was so embarrassed, like I have never been with her, even as a two year-old!! Fuck me. She is screaming and gagging. I inform her she will still not be getting a book, she is now grounded for two more days (she fought so much with Sophie Sunday night that the two of them lost TV, computer, and playing with friend privileges for two days. Princess Crackhead is up to four days now.) She is screaming and writhing on the ground. I try to pick her up and she does the limp doll/seizuring boa constrictor maneuver. I place the pile of books I have lovingly picked out for myself down. I hand Sophie her giftcard and instruct her to pay by heself for her book. Isabella has taken off, shoeless, to hide from Mean Mommy Monster. Too bad she is sniffling and doing that hysterical gag whimper so she is easily found. I catch her and hoist her up like a live surfboard on her side. She is kicking me and display racks. She is howling and screaming, "But I found my book. I want my book!!!!" Just as we are about to hit the front door she lets out one more super high-pitched scream so the entire cafe full of people can no longer ignore me. They are looking at me thinking #1) Is she going to beat the shit out of that kid when she gets to the car? or #2) Can't she control that brat? A spastic 44 pound child is really hard to carry while you are trying to leave a store. I make it to the car and kindly warn her that if she runs away from me she will get hit by a car and get smooshed so she needs to park it while I find my damn keys. I had to call my mother to "talk me off the ledge", so to speak. Crazy thing is, I didn't want to hit her, I just ignored her.
So there we were, no books for me or Isabella, no Noodles and Company for dinner, and a bad headache. Grounding with no TV, computers, bike riding, or playing with friends for two MORE days. Ooohhh, I was pissed. I get it why moms just lose it and go ape-shit. It might not be cool or PC or legal, but I GET it. Parenting is a bitch some days. It's unfortunately not really a job you can quit and say, try another line of work. It's like being tied to the mob. You're in it for good 'cause you're family. Never go against the family. It's not like when you worked at the Gap and realized, "Gee, I don't really LIKE retail, just the clothes! I think I'll try computer game design!" It's more like, "Damn, this sucks. How long can I hold out without caving on that TV bit? Who exactly am I punishing here?! Where's that Pinot Grigio?!"
Tomorrow is another day. It most certainly cannot be worse. I will probably attempt to go back to Borders and get my books. But if I see a "Look out for this CRAZY Bitch" poster on the cafe bulletin board, it better have a picture of a certain shorty brunette I know and not yours truly. Or I will be the one throwing a temper tantrum in that Borders hizzle. I've got your stuffed animals right about here...
Monday, May 5, 2008
Little Tom Sawyers
Have you ever been to Disney's Magic Kingdom in Orlando? There is part of the park where you take a ferry boat over to a small island, Tom Sawyer's and Huck Finn's island. It has a fort and obstacles and cool hiding places. Sultan and our friend, Pat, commented on how it would be cool to have something that big and adventuresome for adults, say to rent out for parties. It's just that not a whole lot of adults I know remember how to truly play like a child.
I took my daughters and our neighbor friends to a place behind our nearby park today. There is a river, a field, and a "really cool ditch". I had banned them from this ditch yesterday, when Sophie tried to bullshit me that an adult was going with them when I told her she couldn't go. There is the quintessential tree with the carved swear words. Didn't we all think that was just so cool to see the F-word SPELLED out?! There is a shady bank with tall weeds and grass. The kids swung from branches, climbed the trees, and gathered wood for a fake bonfire. I stood and watched them play make believe for quite awhile. I hated to ruin their fun but it was time to make dinner. They played tirelessly, pretending bears were chasing them, that they were invisible, that they were riding dolphins, and that they were swimming. As an adult that much imagination would have to happen by perhaps OD-ing on Robitussin. Ah to have the imagination and enthusiasm of a child, maybe life wouldn't seem so tedious and boring?
When Andy and I were little my Grandma and Grandpa Seymour used to live in this apartment complex in Grand Rapids. There was a decent-sized swamp behind it and when we were bored, which tended to be often, we explored back there. We would find big sticks and go "fishing" which really was just code for dragging big, soggy leaves out onto the banks. It was harmless, we weren't destroying anything, least of all the environment. Although no one gave a shit back then. People still ate their Big Macs from those throw-away styrofoam containers and didn't think twice about chucking them by the side of the road. There was this mean bitch lady who ALWAYS seemed to be perched and ready to yell at us. "You kids shouldn't be doing that! You need to stop it! Do your parents know where you are?!" Twat bag old hag. She could have used a stick up her ass is what I was thinking. Why do grown-ups have to spoil all the fun?
Sometimes I feel like the Debbie Downer of my mom friends. I always feel like I'm yelling at them to keep it down or knock it off or come inside. I'm not so easy-going and carefree. I don't let them run all over the place, from house to house playing at will with whomever they like. I don't bake cookies all the time in case little friends should need a snack. I bake at Christmas and that's pretty much to give cookies as gifts. I wish I was the mom who though up crafts and made a lemonade stand with my kids or played in the mud and just thought, "Oh well!" when it got all over my kids shoes and clothes. Let's put it this way, I don't think I'd do too well on Survivor. I am enemies to bugs and the cold and deeply intimate with a flushing toilet and my coffee maker. I like my kids clean, quiet, and without a posse of 14 friends all screaming for icee pops in my kitchen. I'm really exaggerating here, there's no way in HELL I would have 14 of either of my kids' friends in my kitchen at once unless there was a natural disaster and the government mandated it. I'm a selfish bitch, I know.
You might see me at the Adventure Spot near the park. I will be sitting on my bike, fake ignoring my children but really keeping a keen eye on them to make sure they don't break any bones or carve any potty mouth words themselves (Ha! I know they know what plenty of swear words are but they know Mommy would kick some ass if that happened...). I will have me cell phone in hand, texting the four people I figured out how to program into my phone. I might have a tear in my eye of nostalgia for my youth. Or maybe it's just the wind, I can't tell. I used to like getting dirty and playing with bugs, didn't I? Either way, I'm Mommy Explorer with my herd of little Tom Sawyers, awaiting their next adventure.
I took my daughters and our neighbor friends to a place behind our nearby park today. There is a river, a field, and a "really cool ditch". I had banned them from this ditch yesterday, when Sophie tried to bullshit me that an adult was going with them when I told her she couldn't go. There is the quintessential tree with the carved swear words. Didn't we all think that was just so cool to see the F-word SPELLED out?! There is a shady bank with tall weeds and grass. The kids swung from branches, climbed the trees, and gathered wood for a fake bonfire. I stood and watched them play make believe for quite awhile. I hated to ruin their fun but it was time to make dinner. They played tirelessly, pretending bears were chasing them, that they were invisible, that they were riding dolphins, and that they were swimming. As an adult that much imagination would have to happen by perhaps OD-ing on Robitussin. Ah to have the imagination and enthusiasm of a child, maybe life wouldn't seem so tedious and boring?
When Andy and I were little my Grandma and Grandpa Seymour used to live in this apartment complex in Grand Rapids. There was a decent-sized swamp behind it and when we were bored, which tended to be often, we explored back there. We would find big sticks and go "fishing" which really was just code for dragging big, soggy leaves out onto the banks. It was harmless, we weren't destroying anything, least of all the environment. Although no one gave a shit back then. People still ate their Big Macs from those throw-away styrofoam containers and didn't think twice about chucking them by the side of the road. There was this mean bitch lady who ALWAYS seemed to be perched and ready to yell at us. "You kids shouldn't be doing that! You need to stop it! Do your parents know where you are?!" Twat bag old hag. She could have used a stick up her ass is what I was thinking. Why do grown-ups have to spoil all the fun?
Sometimes I feel like the Debbie Downer of my mom friends. I always feel like I'm yelling at them to keep it down or knock it off or come inside. I'm not so easy-going and carefree. I don't let them run all over the place, from house to house playing at will with whomever they like. I don't bake cookies all the time in case little friends should need a snack. I bake at Christmas and that's pretty much to give cookies as gifts. I wish I was the mom who though up crafts and made a lemonade stand with my kids or played in the mud and just thought, "Oh well!" when it got all over my kids shoes and clothes. Let's put it this way, I don't think I'd do too well on Survivor. I am enemies to bugs and the cold and deeply intimate with a flushing toilet and my coffee maker. I like my kids clean, quiet, and without a posse of 14 friends all screaming for icee pops in my kitchen. I'm really exaggerating here, there's no way in HELL I would have 14 of either of my kids' friends in my kitchen at once unless there was a natural disaster and the government mandated it. I'm a selfish bitch, I know.
You might see me at the Adventure Spot near the park. I will be sitting on my bike, fake ignoring my children but really keeping a keen eye on them to make sure they don't break any bones or carve any potty mouth words themselves (Ha! I know they know what plenty of swear words are but they know Mommy would kick some ass if that happened...). I will have me cell phone in hand, texting the four people I figured out how to program into my phone. I might have a tear in my eye of nostalgia for my youth. Or maybe it's just the wind, I can't tell. I used to like getting dirty and playing with bugs, didn't I? Either way, I'm Mommy Explorer with my herd of little Tom Sawyers, awaiting their next adventure.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Another Calgon Moment
I swear I did a post referring to an old 80's TV commercial for a product called Calgon. It was a bath product that would soothe your troubles away once you poured it into your tub and let the water do its work. The commercial always had some super-stressed out woman who got a run in her pantyhose, dumped coffee on her sexist boss' lap, got a flat tire on the way home from work, and then broke one of her manicured red 2-inch nails and was compelled to exclaim, "Calgon, take me AWAY!!!!" If only a bubble bath would take away my troubles instead of give me a raging bladder infection and two kids pounding on the door for me to unlock it. As I type my kids are beating the shit out of each other in Sophie's bed. Lord, please give me the strength to NOT go up there and bang their heads together like two coconuts. THIS is a moment for Xanax..........
Currently Sultan is playing Grand Theft Auto. That is fine. I wish I had some escape from their mother fucking incessant screaming, bickering, bitching, and whining. Problem is, they always know how to find me. I do not even know how some people do it with more than two kids. Truly, I am in awe of anyone out there who has 3 plus kids, especially if they are girls. God damn. I sometimes feel bad for being at the absolute end of my rope but I can't help it. Isabella began the evening with a spectacular temper tantrum/crying jag that lasted for 40 minutes. We went to the elementary school to see Sophie in the 2nd grade musical. The gymnasium served as the auditorium this year with folding chairs. Without graduated seating, if you weren't in the first two rows you couldn't see shit. Isabella took one look at our seats, a shameful FIVE rows back, and threw a hissy.
"IIIIIIIIIIIIII CCAAAAAAAAAAN'T SSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
No fucking shit, we already got here an hour and a half early. Give me a damn break. Oh, but little Public Outburst Devil Child had already SEEN the show at an assembly at school during the day. Screaming, hyperventilating, and crying ensued for way too damn long. I seriously wanted to chuck her in the gym storage room with all the kickballs and scooters, locking the door and maybe scaring her into submission. That shit NEVER works with her. (Not locking her in rooms, you freaks who have DCFS on speed dial, just punishing her into realizing she should be good to get her way.) It had to be about 85 degrees in there--I was pitting out worse than Bill Clinton at a sex addicts recovery meeting. We barely saw Sophie do her seahorse part thanks to all the NBA-tall dads who held their orangutan arms up with video cameras for 30 minutes. Princess Satanica got to sit on the floor in front to see the whole damn show, for a second time, and with the cool breeze of the open gym doors blowing on her. I joked with Sophie's teacher, who is the cutest damn thing and is getting married this summer, "Wait a LONG time before you have babies. Please, for the love of God, enjoy that freedom before kids suck it all up!" She giggled and told me I was silly. Har-dee-har-har. Children are a barrel of laughs, aren't they?
But no, my night gets even BETTER. As you know I have like 85 pets in this hizzle. Okay, I really only have two cats, one guinea pig, and a dog, but it FEELS like 85 animals with all the bodily functions they excrete every damn place I turn. Princess Leah is a nervous little scrawny cat. She inhales her food so fast, without chewing, and then yacks it all up whole about every third time she eats. She also enjoys eating price tags, organdy ribbon, and string. She leaves a potpourri of vomit trails with this shit in it. Issey is a total fag diva. He licks himself 8 hours a day. He sleeps for about 10 hours a day. He fucks with us at night about 4 hours a day, pawing my head or tits till I yell at him. And he vomits hairballs about 2 hours per day. Pierre needs a Crane's hand-engraved invitation to take a piss in the grass in our backyard. Seriously, I have to coax him to "Go potty, Pierre!" about 20 times before he'll do it. And if I leave the screen door open, he runs back in, bladder full, expecting a treat. Like I DON'T fucking know he's about to piss on my floor. I came home, stepped OVER Leah's puked-up dinner, stepped into Issey's third hairball the size of a small rat (complete with it's own special hairy bile), and then again into two squishy turds Pierre deposited by the God damn door in m laundry room. Are all of you fucking animals banding together, eating massive quantities of whatever makes you shit and puke to make my life HELL?! Because I really, really hate cleaning up this bullshit. I purposely avoid this shit bomb routine every month by taking my birth control to prevent me from having any more babies. If I had to change another diaper of a child of mine I would be committed.
I will hopefully arise from bed tomorrow refreshed, renewed, and ready to start another lovely day as a mother to my daughters. Every day it's a crap shoot as to how it will turn out. Moods and drama can turn on a dime. I know this because like I said, I have two daughters. And I thought the drama would be postponed till at least 13, not 8 years-old. I pray my cats will be able to digest all they consume and that Pierre will decide it is purely kickass to shit in the grass and NOT piss on my carpet. Chances are, not all will go my way and I'll settle for a handful of endorphins from spin class. Because if I roll the dice on the crap shoot that is my life, chances are I will step in a big pile of dookie.
Currently Sultan is playing Grand Theft Auto. That is fine. I wish I had some escape from their mother fucking incessant screaming, bickering, bitching, and whining. Problem is, they always know how to find me. I do not even know how some people do it with more than two kids. Truly, I am in awe of anyone out there who has 3 plus kids, especially if they are girls. God damn. I sometimes feel bad for being at the absolute end of my rope but I can't help it. Isabella began the evening with a spectacular temper tantrum/crying jag that lasted for 40 minutes. We went to the elementary school to see Sophie in the 2nd grade musical. The gymnasium served as the auditorium this year with folding chairs. Without graduated seating, if you weren't in the first two rows you couldn't see shit. Isabella took one look at our seats, a shameful FIVE rows back, and threw a hissy.
"IIIIIIIIIIIIII CCAAAAAAAAAAN'T SSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
No fucking shit, we already got here an hour and a half early. Give me a damn break. Oh, but little Public Outburst Devil Child had already SEEN the show at an assembly at school during the day. Screaming, hyperventilating, and crying ensued for way too damn long. I seriously wanted to chuck her in the gym storage room with all the kickballs and scooters, locking the door and maybe scaring her into submission. That shit NEVER works with her. (Not locking her in rooms, you freaks who have DCFS on speed dial, just punishing her into realizing she should be good to get her way.) It had to be about 85 degrees in there--I was pitting out worse than Bill Clinton at a sex addicts recovery meeting. We barely saw Sophie do her seahorse part thanks to all the NBA-tall dads who held their orangutan arms up with video cameras for 30 minutes. Princess Satanica got to sit on the floor in front to see the whole damn show, for a second time, and with the cool breeze of the open gym doors blowing on her. I joked with Sophie's teacher, who is the cutest damn thing and is getting married this summer, "Wait a LONG time before you have babies. Please, for the love of God, enjoy that freedom before kids suck it all up!" She giggled and told me I was silly. Har-dee-har-har. Children are a barrel of laughs, aren't they?
But no, my night gets even BETTER. As you know I have like 85 pets in this hizzle. Okay, I really only have two cats, one guinea pig, and a dog, but it FEELS like 85 animals with all the bodily functions they excrete every damn place I turn. Princess Leah is a nervous little scrawny cat. She inhales her food so fast, without chewing, and then yacks it all up whole about every third time she eats. She also enjoys eating price tags, organdy ribbon, and string. She leaves a potpourri of vomit trails with this shit in it. Issey is a total fag diva. He licks himself 8 hours a day. He sleeps for about 10 hours a day. He fucks with us at night about 4 hours a day, pawing my head or tits till I yell at him. And he vomits hairballs about 2 hours per day. Pierre needs a Crane's hand-engraved invitation to take a piss in the grass in our backyard. Seriously, I have to coax him to "Go potty, Pierre!" about 20 times before he'll do it. And if I leave the screen door open, he runs back in, bladder full, expecting a treat. Like I DON'T fucking know he's about to piss on my floor. I came home, stepped OVER Leah's puked-up dinner, stepped into Issey's third hairball the size of a small rat (complete with it's own special hairy bile), and then again into two squishy turds Pierre deposited by the God damn door in m laundry room. Are all of you fucking animals banding together, eating massive quantities of whatever makes you shit and puke to make my life HELL?! Because I really, really hate cleaning up this bullshit. I purposely avoid this shit bomb routine every month by taking my birth control to prevent me from having any more babies. If I had to change another diaper of a child of mine I would be committed.
I will hopefully arise from bed tomorrow refreshed, renewed, and ready to start another lovely day as a mother to my daughters. Every day it's a crap shoot as to how it will turn out. Moods and drama can turn on a dime. I know this because like I said, I have two daughters. And I thought the drama would be postponed till at least 13, not 8 years-old. I pray my cats will be able to digest all they consume and that Pierre will decide it is purely kickass to shit in the grass and NOT piss on my carpet. Chances are, not all will go my way and I'll settle for a handful of endorphins from spin class. Because if I roll the dice on the crap shoot that is my life, chances are I will step in a big pile of dookie.
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