Merry Christmahanakwanzika

From my family to yours...




Have a happy and safe holiday season!

Hey, Don't Tase Me Bro...

All I want for my birthday is a taser. Is that really too much to ask for? I’ve been holding out for one for years. I’ll be 34 soon, and my favorite day of the year is my birthday (which is soon approaching, hint-hint, wink-wink, nudge-nudge). I even disguised my request to my husband inside another present, “Honey, this year – I really don’t want much. I love this choice one of a kind hand-made bag (read: snazzy purse that I found on sale for $60) with a taser inside.”

Not one to miss a beat, he responded, “That is a nice bag…you do realize you’ll probably just end up tasing yourself?” Is tasing even a word?

I know that you might be wondering what it is I plan on doing with my taser. To which my response would be: well, tasing everything, of course! I’ve imagined tasing myself [in case you’ve never read *that* email, it is HILARIOUS!]. I’ve fantasized tasing my husband in the face when he does things I don’t like. I’ve envisioned tasing my kids when they’re mouthy. I’ve visualized tasing my cats when they scratch my furniture. While all of those things could seem like worthwhile fun, they would be short-lived and minimally humorous. I do have to live with them all - like, well…all of the time. They might end up exponential retribution tasing me in my sleep. I’ve moved onto bigger & better plans!

I fancy becoming a vigilante, hunting out crimes & misdeeds in my quiet suburban neighborhood and tasing criminals and rascals alike. I like to have a couple of glasses of wine & feed the deer in my back yard our baby carrots. Yes, yes you hippies…I’ve even conceived tasing them. I’ve often wondered if tased rubber melts – as you can guess I’ve got plans to tase my Jeep tires [talking to myself like Tim Allen from Home Improvement – How rugged are you, tires?!? Hau Hau Hau].

I’ve plotted using my taser to properly cook Crème Brulee. Who wouldn’t want to have that for dessert?!? The list of random people I’d tase just because I could seems to grow on a daily basis: the mailman, asshats who drive double the speed limit down my road, that guy who almost broadsided me yesterday on my commute home…then had the nerve to give ME the finger when I beeped at him, small dogs and chickens (for some reason both of these creatures are creepy enough to me to warrant a rampant tasing).

I’ve envisioned greeting my friends in what I’ll dub my signature move. We meet up for lunch in some crowded venue…I tase them and holler, “How ARE you doing?!”

I’ve imagined tasing my brother for each of the times he’s called me fat throughout my life: I do also realize that part of this daydream finds me just excessively tasing him long past the point where he’s peed himself, started drooling & foaming at the mouth, seizing and has become irreversibly brain damaged…Don’t judge, this is deep rooted from years of verbal abuse.

But, mainly I wonder – who’s going to get me that taser this year? This year HAS to be my year! I can just feel it…

Who Knew Princesses Burp?!?

My oldest just turned seven, and for this grand occasion I threw her the Fairy Godmother of all parties. She along with nine other high pitched screaming little girly girls were transformed into princesses right in my own house. Brave, you think me? Smart, says I...enlisting the help of four other Fairy Godmothers (complete with evening dresses and dollar store fairy wings).

Station One: Tiara & Wand Making. This station, situated at my dining room table was the largest of stations, and of course - given to Fairy Godmother Granny (my mother). Who better than to take on five ecstatic little sovereigns than a retired elementary school teacher?

Station Two: Face Painting, Fingernail Polish and Dresses. This station was taken on by yours truly and Fairy Godmother Duffy. Again: I snagged me an artist. Brilliant.

Station Three: Picture Frame Coloring. Manned by Fairy Aunt Godmother Courtney. There were markers. There was a princess movie on TV. Aunt work, 'nuf said.

Station Four: The Photo Shoot. Fairy Godmother Kate also has a minor in kid herding and cropping out the last minute, "Hey, you can't take the picture without me in it!". Again, having a photographer as a close friend has its perks. Genius!

There were pizzas, juice boxes and cake pops...because what else do princesses eat? Over the course of three hours - we morphed, endured polish fumes in a small room, repeated "Couches are for sitting, not jumping", peeled the backs of jewels, and then sat back and watched it unfold.

I've discovered many a thing that day...I determined who's going to grow up to be the head cheerleader (my heart goes out to her mother...), I've witnessed a religious Grandmother tell children, who repeat everything to say "WHISKEY" to the camera (never mind that I still smelled like the fortification I imbibed the previous evening). I was informed that someone had lost seven teeth while someone else still had all theirs. I ascertained even petite little girls can stomp on hardwoods and shout like grown men. And mainly, I detected that Princesses Burp.

I'm not sure which majestic monarch belted one out first. But one certainly did! Maybe it eeked out? I'm still on the fence, but it was followed by a few screeches of "Gross!", a handful of snickers and one responding burp. Maybe it's their secret language. I'm not positive. Dainty darlings were packing down pizza, smearing sauce on their royal frocks and I wondered: Jesus, did I order enough??? Then, as quickly as it began, they were off to swish their wands and proclaim God-only-knows what in the other room.

And I chucked to myself thinking: even princesses burp. Who knew?

THAT'S GROSS, MOMMY!

If there is one thing that I have come to know as a parent, it is that kids say the damnedest things. Sometimes, it is so hard not to lose it and laugh at them when they're holding a serious conversation with you. I do my best, but hey - I'm human...and my three-year-old is becoming quite the conversationalist.

"Mommy, guess what?"

Taking a moment to pause while stirring dinner, which is going to be sauteed chicken, I turn to her lovely shining face. "What honey-bunch?"

"I like purple."

"Is that so? I'm glad you told me. Thank you."

She ponders for a moment. "Mommy, I really like purple."

I take a deep breathe, "I really like chicken."

Obviously, I'm not getting it. She tries again, "Mommy - can you guess what?"

"Probably not, could you save me the effort and just tell me?"

"I LIKE PURPLE!"

"I see."

Moments pass. Chicken is sauteing. Veggies are steaming. "Guess what?!?"

I look down at her. I smile. Chuckling to myself I respond, "Chicken butt?"

"UUUUGHHHH! You're gross. You're really, REALLY gross!" I'm trying not to laugh. "Gross, gross, GROSS Mommy." I've stopped stirring. I'm trying so hard. She looks distraught. I'm going to have to leave the room in a minute if she doesn't stop. I have tears welling. Then she laid it on me. "Is chicken butt purple?"

We ate slightly burnt chicken tonight.

I Propose Calling It: Unholy Friday

Ahhh, tis the season to sucker-punch and shove your way into merriment. Stay up all night to beat off someone else who put their grubby paws on your cherished present for the savior...Or is that just on CNN?

Every year, I (and my husband) endure the same shouted cries of shock and horror, "YOU DON'T CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS?!?" Well, we do, but not like every one else. Let me explain.

I grew up different, no question. I had Christmas so long ago, I can't even remember having a tree as a kid. My mother found a new "religion" while I was still young (something we'll go into on a later date) and I lost Christmas. I grew older, moved out and decided to celebrate on my own. I was a poor college student, putting myself through a school that cost in excess of $25K per year. The family I had that did celebrate made it all about money and bigger gifts and who got who what...I refused right there to keep up with the Joneses - my own family.

Enter my now husband - who back then was merely the boy I was dating and madly in love with. "Your mother & sister are Jewish, on a technicality you are Jewish too...why the hell do you people celebrate Christmas???" I got a shoulder shrug and a mumbled response that everyone else did...

We dreamed of having our own family, and what we wanted the holidays to mean to us. We wanted family. Not presents. Sharing and togetherness...not gimme, gimme, gimme! [IMHO: that is reserved for your birthday. A day that everyone should take time to worship you. And buy you presents. YOUR DAY!] We decided to be rebels. Christmas was going to be about family and NOT about presents in our house, damnit!

And so it was decided on a long ago winter night...my husband and I were snuggled up, not buying each other presents, and plotting our futures. We decided to do the 25 days of Christmas, starting on December 1st. We charted out a calendar chalked full of family oriented activities that revolved around a family and being together and NOT buying presents. And every year on BLACK FRIDAY while people are harming and bullying and selfishly out there polluting a holiday in the name of "Christ" and "Giving", I sit at home with my family and plan out what events we'll do each day/night. And every year, I endure the constant eye roll, the look of shock and then explain...to see the face soften, a smile spread and a faint look of jealousy over our sacred family time.

We carol, we go sledding, we decorate a tree and make special trips to the Hallmark Store to pick out everyone's special ornament that year. We make fudge, we make candy, we destroy my kitchen & dining room making and decorating cookies. We make care packages with these tasty goodies. And we do it all as a family!

Now, the kids do get a little something. They all have 3D wooden advent calendars. Each night filled with a tasty little morsel or a tiny little delight, but nothing that cost me more than $1 (again, I REFUSE to let it be about $). Everyone has a stocking...stuffed with things they need - this year, I think everyone needs some great new slippers as our feet have been growing lately. So, they don't feel weird and do get to open something (remember, I was that kid who was ostracized growing up...spending the Christmas parties in school at the Library by myself).

Oh, and lastly - I don't lie to my kids. Ever. Santa doesn't bring presents here. All three know that Santa is the goodness inside your heart that helps you to treat others with kindness & respect - and hopefully not just during the holidays. But we also teach that the world is an amazing place because people all believe different things, and some people believe Santa is a real person - and that they should respect that and honor those feelings...and never, ever try to tell that person otherwise.

And every year, I look around to see frazzled parents who go to the mall or chain stores every day. Who fought or stayed sleepless to get someone that ungettable get. And I think of my own peace, and how my children will smile for 25 days and not just one; hopefully building memory after memory - and not just receiving some long forgotten toy.

So, this year - Please know: when I wish you a Merry Christmas or a Happy Holiday; it truly is from my heart and encompasses all of my family (which I treasure more than anything). Don't look at me strangely and judge me based upon the presents I buy. As I teach my kids...the world would truly be a boring place if we all just did the same thing. And please remember: it's the holidays...not Celebrity Death Match out there.

Muchas Gracias

Tis the time of year when we’re expected to take stock of our lives and be thankful for what we have. Mainly, I wonder why people wait until a holiday to do this. Being thankful is something we should all be every day – not just in November through December 25th. I thought to take a little time to let you all know the things I wake up for thankful every single day…you know the little things that might get overlooked by many, and the reasons I can say I’m thankful for each one with a smile. Here is my typical day:

Since Daylight Savings time, I hear the pitter-patter of my adorable son’s little feet as he shuffles off to the bathroom at 5:45am. While it might be a reflex to groan over the time this little morning bird actually gets up, it’s a serene moment for me to giggle and thank God that I woke up to his cuteness and not the fakey “outdoor sounds” that are supposed to soothe me awake by my alarm clock.

I quickly roll over to face the ‘mouth breather’ sawing wood next to me and stare a moment in wonder. He’s there, and warm and alive…and not in some far off city. Thanks, I’m lost without him. I poke him awake and roll off the bed heading for the shower.

Ahhh, the shower. Thank you for this hot water. LOL: is that the stupid heat detector going off again? Thank God that works…don’t want the house to burn down. Man, this water must be super hot. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I get dressed and do my makeup and hair – OMG, my hair! Thanks to my aunt who always makes me have the best hair ever…or so I think. I need to make an appointment soon. I love colors. I’m so thankful my boss and husband accept me for who I am and don’t mind that I might randomly show up with hot pink hair. Anyways…off to work.

I start up my Jeep. Oh, Fenway. I love you. I can’t believe how silly thankful I am to finally have a manual transmission back. I go to work. I have a job that affords me an amazing woman who Nannies my kids. THANK YOU! I love my kids, but I’m not a stay at home type, and I’m so thankful for Sharon each and every day, providing them with responsible and loving care.

On my way home, I say a loud cursory prayer of thanks that I don’t drive like “Those Idiots”! I pull in my driveway, and breathe a contented sigh of relief. Thank you for letting me arrive safely through this day to find myself in the most wonderful spot on earth…my home.

Then the little things that get us through our evenings: Thank you for the toy I stepped on, I can afford to buy them for my kids; Thank you for the kids who are asserting their new-found authority and not eating their dinners – they’re not starving and they’re learning to make decisions on their own; Thank you for the crazy hilarity that will ensue in some part of my evening, it’s different every day and makes me laugh; Thank you for letting me put my aching foot on your lap and snuggle up watching TV when all is said & done…you’re here and not somewhere else; Thank you for this tired march up our stairs to go to bed, it means my day was full and I have no regrets if tomorrow never dawns for me.

Oh, and one more thing…I’m thankful for you. You care enough about me to even read this, so I must be special. Thanks! So, what are you thankful for?

Oh....That Bitch!

Recently, I was seduced by television. My cell contract was up, and my husband had been traveling. I felt lost. I was lonely…and there, on my TV in my livingroom was this woman talking to her cell phone. “Where is the closest restaurant?” “Why does it snow?” “Where do you hide dead bodies?” Ok, you caught me. The ad didn’t say the last thing, but Hell…I could still ask it that. I decided right then and there I needed this fabulous gadget. One that could remind me of things I’d been constantly forgetting. One that could schedule Dr. appointments on my calendar. One that could txt my husband for me while I was driving. Yes. I was in love.

As luck would have it, while everyone else was on a two week waiting list for this fancy piece of technology…I made one phone call and received her two hours later. Ahhh. “Honey, where’s her manual?” Oh, there isn’t one. That’s lame. Ok. I poke some buttons. I swipe my finger over this and that. AHA! I shall load my music library! I run upstairs. I begin the transformation from mere phone into that of personal jukebox. Wait…did she just crash? [sigh] I reboot. I reinstall the software per the instructions appearing on my screen. I reboot. I go to make a call…all my contacts are gone. Seriously? SERIOUSLY??? I swear. I start over. It crashes again. I swear some more.

What’s happening? I don’t get it. It’s supposed to be easy to use. And I’m not stupid…Ok, ok…I’m not *THAT* stupid. It crashes again. ‘GOODNESS ME THE CLOCK HAS STRUCK, A-LACK-A-DAY AND FUHK MY LUCK!!!” I swear more. I go downstairs in near tears. “What did I just do? This seemed like such a great idea. I’ve been so disorganized lately. I just was trying to restore order…and THAT BITCH hates me.” At this point my husband rolls his eyes at me. He points out that he’s pretty sure that the phone, while being voice activated didn’t receive a ‘spite chip’ instead of a smart one. Hilarious. Notice my laughter? >:|

I go back upstairs. More swearing. More crashing. More data loss. More sense of impending dread. Finally, BJ steps in with minimal damage to my pride. “Can I look at it? I’d like to play around…” “Uh sure, just remember – that bitch might hate you too.” Somehow, the brilliant man I married sweet talks that bitch into cooperating with me.

Me and that bitch are currently BFFs. She’s told me where I can find escort services when I am horny. She’s told me where good places are to hide dead bodies. She’s told me that our public library is a good place to get a beer when I am thirsty. She’s provided hiding places for misplaced socks – you know when I need one to shove in my kid’s whiney mouth. I’d almost venture to say that I loved her…that is, until she erased all my stored data when I tried to upload a new ringtone.

“Siri, what will happen if I smash you?” “Hmmm…I’m checking.” Time’s a ticking, Siri…Time’s a ticking…

I'm Electric, and He's My Ground

Recently, it has come to my attention that I’m a lunatic. Not just your standard garden variety, but the crazed, drooling hose-beast type. About a month ago, my home life changed drastically. I know what you might be thinking, and it’s not that, so don’t worry…but it’s close. Too close for my comfort.

My childhood was anything but conventional. Hell, it might be considered standard in this day and age, but 26 years ago, I was the only kid in my grade with divorced parents. I was raised by a single mother with more than her fair share of issues, but one thing she had down pat was - she loved me. I’m incredibly lucky merely because I know the true definition of unconditional love. That being said, the youthful remainder was downhill. I knew the rest of my life could only look up; but some things are so major they will define you early on as a person for the rest of your life.

I have trust issues. I don’t share. I think crying is a sign of weakness, complaining is inability to change your situation and I know you should never, ever compare your life to someone else’s because you can always find inadequacies if you look hard enough. I learned at the tender age of seven that I could count on me and ONLY me. If something needed done – I’d do it. I grasped that manipulation is an effective tool that can save your life and put food on the table. Baggage? Nope…I don’t have baggage – I have an entire damned U-Haul I cart around on a daily basis.

Then one day, I met a boy. He was special. Something about him fit me, although in the beginning, weirdly and with much difficulty. But, even the dumbest of people can understand when you find a brand new shiny penny on the ground, you pick it up and hold onto it. I stuffed him into my pocket.

Over the years, the boy taught me some things (many are an on-going work in progress). I’ve learned to trust. I’ve learned how to share. I’ve learned how to release and break down. He taught me that there was still innate goodness in some. And most of all, he taught me how to let go. I can have the most horrible of days, the terrible of thoughts, the foulest mouth…and one hug later, I’m clean. My “white board of life” is back to a blank squeaky clean – leaving me time to focus on our happy little life and our lovely family.

Back to the change in our life; he’s been traveling a LOT lately. I’m trying my hand at being a single mom, but with dual paychecks. Needless to say, every night spent in our giant bed alone makes me more insane and I've realized on a granular level – this isn’t what I signed up for. I feel like I’ve lost my penny…you know, that one I picked up all those years ago that was to bring me good luck.

And with the loss of that penny is the loss of my sanity. My white board now has scribbles over scribbles…and I can’t erase it. I find myself holding on, having already forgotten how to let go. My trust went out the window weeks ago. I’ve become suspicious and filled with angst. I find I have no calming voice to sooth the children. That’s no good. I turned my pockets inside out…still no penny.

In the greater scheme of things, I can’t grumble too much. I’ll find my penny stuffed in a cushion in a few more days, and normalcy will return…but until then, I can’t help but feeling like a bag lady, aimlessly walking the mall of life; asking anyone if they’ve seen my penny. If found, you should return to owner – she’s the crazy one over there muttering to herself…

Did You Just Tell Me To Suck It?!?!

I have now discovered what is going to be the death of my marriage. Words With Friends…or more lovingly referred to as WWF. Unbelievable? Let me explain…

I’m a board game junkie. Having grown up in a overly testosteroned family (I have four brothers) who are all extremely competitive, I took my victories where I could…where my wits outmatched their brawn: on the game board. I’ll admit, it’s my thrill, and I’m extremely good at some of these games. At Othello, I’m near unbeatable (and I’m teaching Thing 1 who has already, at the tender age of six, bested her grandparents, her nanny and her father). At Monopoly, I will own you after I’ve slowly and conspicuously taken over the board (please note that Monopoly was a full contact sport in my house…and very few will ever indulge me any more). And Scrabble. Ahhh, Scrabble.

While my mouth gushes foul words that would make a trucker run for cover, I have that luxury. See, my vocabulary is vast. A bit superfluous actually. Who walks around stating things like, “Quite contrary to your introspection, I hypothesize that most are completely copacetic with their exigency”? I’d get stared at even more than I already do (I like to pretend it’s my good looks). Instead, I relish unleashing my plethora of locutions on the unsuspecting Scrabble adversary. Enter WWF.

Here is a game that when played online with friends, offers: online cheats, multiple word attempts until you get just the precise arrangement of letters to form a word one couldn’t define if their life depended on it (with no tête-à-tête in which one may challenge the proposed ‘word’ attempt) and no time limits. Surely, you can see how this is devastating. I thought it an amusing way to play with my husband, when most nights we’re too pooped to do much more than snuggle on the couch watching our favorite shows (Which, for the record are NOT comedies. Stop recommending them to us. We don’t find them funny. Ever.)…I digress.

It’s with a heavy heart that I admit the fault is all mine. I started this. It was my brain-child, and I invited him to play. Little did I know that one night I would hear the explosive, “SUCK ON THAT…48 POINT WORD. HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?!?!” echoed from my kitchen. How was I to know that while staring at my intangible rack (God, how I hate that I can’t touch these tiles…I’ve unearthed just how tactile I am) of seven consonants for the third round in a row; that the monster I created would take pleasure in announcing, “You gave me the triple word square, just wait ‘til you see this…I’m going to crush you!!!” Or, “HAHA! I don’t even know what that word means, but it sure as hell gave me 38 points!” [dying a little inside knowing he’ll never even look it up to find out it’s meaning]

Yes, I’ve had my figurative ass handed to me by the man who went to school on a math scholarship. Who had a College Dean ask his mother what language was spoken in their home because his use of the English language was so atrocious. Whose grad school papers I lovingly wasted entire red pens upon in the editing process… And I can’t help but wonder – is it true that “that which doesn’t kill us make us stronger”? If so, I’m thinking my marriage might not dissolve after all…you know, after I rip out his tongue.

Tales of the Cougar…Chaser

Recently, I looked over at my incredibly cute son. I realized that he needed a few new wardrobe items to be ready for our family pictures this year. I asked if he wanted to go shopping with me – you know, spend some quality Mommy – Noah time. This kid was ecstatic. He loves to shop. Sometimes, I worry for him.

…and then it happened. We were in our second store of the day, trying to find him the perfect new hoodie. Something appropriate for a four-year-old, yet rugged & manly with a hint of metro. Yes, this describes this little bundle of naughty perfectly. We found a brown zip-up number with wooly fleece inside the hood and some football-style numbers on the front. He was in love. I was content to wander around the rest of the store, which is when this whole mess began.

This kid has a homing beacon for hot moms. I really don’t know what it is. It would be terribly funny IF it weren’t my kid, or even IF I could figure out where he gets this crap from. In any case…he eyeballed himself a hottie. I’m going to say mid-30’s or so. Blonde. She’s pushing a stroller with the carrier in it, so you can tell her kid is a baby. He saddles right up to her, and I’m powerless to stop what happens next.

He leans over and looks into the stopped carriage. “Is that your baby? Your baby is soooooo beautiful!” He bats his incredibly long eyelashes while looking up at this woman with sheer admiration. She stops riffling through clothes on the rack to ask him, “Aren’t you the cutest thing?” I want to die of mortification. He does not stop there….no, no.

“Really, this is the most beautiful baby ever. You are a very lucky Mommy. Do you mind if I touch (he’s guessing now b/c I know he’s not really learned about gender color differences) him? “ At this point, he doesn’t wait for a response but gently caresses the baby’s head. “Ohhh, he’s so soft and so sweet.” At this point, I think this mother is completely in love with my son, and that I just might have to puke into my purse. I might have actually made gagging sounds, b/c for the first time this Mom looks right at me.

“Your son is the most adorable little boy ever! He’s so sweet & polite…”

I cut her off, “And hitting on you.” She looks at me puzzled. I continue, “Yes, hitting on you…as in trying to pick you up, then ask if you want to come over for a slumber party [insert now my son staring at me gape mouthed b/c I’m giving away all his secret moves]. No, I’m not kidding. That duplicitous little cutie right there is what we call a Cougar Chaser…and you were just pounced upon.” With that, I snatched his hand and headed for the front of the store.

As a parting moment of closure, he yells over his shoulder to the mom standing there watching in mute horror as she just allowed herself to get picked up by a four-year-old, “But he really is the cutest baby ever. Maybe I’ll see you again!” OMG. I pray to the contrary. Lord help us all…

Is That The Neighbor...Growling?!?

Last night was like any other autumn evening in fair upstate NY. We put the kids to bed and hunkered down on the couch. At 8:30pm, it was rainy and pitch black outside. What a great night to read a book…one of my favorite past-times. My husband settled in at my feet, and I lounged out reading while he channel surfed and settled on something on the Sy-Fy Channel (what is it with men & the Sy-Fy Channel???).

Again, as typical nights go, we had to get up and holler at the kids to quiet down & go to sleep about 20 times. Well, maybe not 20 times, but you know the drill. We settle back into our comfy couch. I’m feeling quite cozy, reading my book and all…when the coughing starts. After about 10 minutes, BJ looks at me and inquires as to whether or not he should give our son something for the rampant hacking that has been streaming from his room. We decide on a low-dose cough medicine. He gets up to administer it.

I’m shifting and trying to make myself comfortable on the couch now that my primary source of heat is gone. Aside from the light rustling in my son’s room, it’s very quiet…when I notice – uh…What is that? Rain, check. BJ & kid whispering, check. Is that a car revving? No… [looking over] The TV is muted. Hmmm. Seriously, WHAT IS THAT? That sounds creepy as hell! It sounds like, no. Couldn’t be. No, it does! It sounds like freaking GROWLING!

Seriously? I swear to God, something is outside. Growling. LOUDLY! I wonder what the hell our neighbors are doing now - they're a weird lot...I peer out the window from a crack in the curtain. Nothing. Pitch black, remember? The growling starts again…I can’t see anything, and it is starting to freak me out. BJ pads softly back into the room. I put my finger to my lips and whisper, “Do you hear that? Is that growling???” as if some sort of blood thirsty, rabid animal in my front yard can hear me, and might possibly at that precise moment jump through our living room window to eat my face off…

He stares at me. “Hear what?” Apparently, too many years of the Sy-Fy Channel have not only deadened his sense of impending mortal doom, but also have rendered him deaf. Great. I have a feeling I'll end up pushing his useless carcass towards the undead that invade my home in hopes of saving myself & the children.

We sit listening to the silence for a good 5 minutes. Just when he’s about to walk past me to sit down, he hears it. His eyes light up, and he looks at me, “What. The. Hell. Is. That?” “No idea.” We both peer out our front window. Good to know that it’s still raining; and oddly in the span of 15 minutes, nothing has suddenly illuminated our front yard so as to allow us to see what is going to be our eventual snarling demise…

Then it dawns on me. Growling. Our front yard. Halloween decorations. I put these freaky glowing motion-sensored eyes up in our tree. When a loud noise or sudden motion set it off - the eyes light up, it vibrates hard enough to shake our tree …and the thing growls. Way to freak the hell out of your mailman, I might add…Oh, and apparently yourself on some dark and rainy night. As a positive upside, I can now rest easily knowing it wasn’t my neighbors standing in my front yard, zombified and growling, preparing to dine on my superior brain... And to think…I’m not the one who watches the Sy-Fy Channel.

Ode to the Goatee...

After years of begging & pleading, my husband managed to grow in a bit of something that resembled a goatee. He’s not a hairy man, so this was not an easy or quickly accomplished feat. I was in heaven.

We took a few days off for vacation. We didn’t go anywhere. We just had plans to picnic and get some things done around the house. Little did I know, that my husband’s plans included facial alteration. He came downstairs one morning, clean shaven. I was aghast. For the past 5 years he’s had this goatee, and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. I stared, mouth agape. I gave him my “angry eyes”.

“What?!?”

“Oh, you know what you did. I’m not happy.” Funny how one can decide they have a say into another person’s grooming, but I did. Apparently, I was not the only one in the house who had also made this decision…

My two-year-old toddled out of her room [now, to give you some background on this little one, she’s my sunshine. Literally. She’s fair skinned, tow-headed and has bright blue eyes and this hilarious and happy disposition. She speaks her mind and goes after what she wants – it also helps that she is a beast, standing near as tall as her four-year-old brother, and weighing in at five pounds more.] She took one look at her Daddy and scrunched up her face. Oh, this was going to be good!

“Where is your goatee, Daddy? Is it in the kitchen? [lmao, no idea where that came from, but apparently, she believes all good things reside in the kitchen…smart kid] YOU GO GET IT BACK! RIGHT. NOW.” And with that, she pointed in the direction of the kitchen and stared at her father with her harshest face.

He looked at me, and gave me this face as if to say I had put her up to that. I snickered, “Guess you’re going to have to grow it back…” I walked from the room, trying to hide my laughter.

About a week later, the goatee was back (it was still a work in progress, but the hint of it was there). My daughter finally noticed, “Daddy, your goatee! [he scooped her up and she rubbed her fingers on it] It’s back! Did you find it in the kitchen?” She nodded her head as if to reaffirm to herself that this was a perfectly acceptable place to lose, then find, a goatee. If this truly is the case, I really hope I don’t stumble upon any lost ones in the dark. That could be disastrous…

Just a Stone's Throw...

Today I pulled into my driveway to see my nanny still there. This I expected. What I did not expect was to find my husband home before me. Oh, AND the nanny still there. She greeted me at my car parked haphazardly on the front lawn (yeah, our neighbors love how ghetto we are). “Hey, I know I’ve said if one of our parents shows up unannounced check with me before leaving – but thank God you stayed here until I got home…I don’t trust that guy (pointing at my husband) with my kids,” I joked.

Here is the part where she informed me that my brilliant son shoved a pebble up his nose. Really?!? Oh, my God. I did the first thing any self-respecting parent would do considering no one was screaming or bleeding: I laughed. And laughed. She explains it wasn’t big and that BJ was waiting for the Doctor’s office to call him back with instructions on what to do next (I make a snide comment about him being too young to know how to make an impressive enough ‘Snot Rocket’ to launch said pebble). My son was sitting next to him, happy as a clam, on our brick stairs. I looked at him and asked if he was ok. He pondered this for a moment…

“Mommy, why did the chicken cross the road?”

At this point, I had to turn around. I looked our nanny square in the face and inquired of her, “to get another rock?!?” As she tells me that is EXACTLY what she was thinking, we burst into hysterics.

At this point, I tell my son he’ll always have a future in law enforcement as; according to my parents, my now cop brother was notorious for shoving various sundries up his nose as a child. Oddly, it’s his birthday today. I’ll remember to tell him how my son paid his birthday homage when I call him later on. For now, I need to think about dinner. I look over at my husband holding our phone and gazing at it with severe disdain, and my son bobbing his head away to the music that rock must have been playing in his head. I swear, it’s a disease. I just can’t help myself…

“So, for dinner, am I making the pearl onions with peas, popcorn chicken who crossed the road, and some tapioca?” The nanny and I lose it again. My son replies that my condescending make-believe dinner sounds “fun” while my husband throws rocks at me with his eyes…er, daggers. I meant daggers. I walk into my house still laughing at my sick sense of humor, oh, and at my pepple pusher. $5 more that I owe to that damned therapy jar.

Beep at Me, Wouldja???

I love to shower. I love my showers so hot as to melt my skin off, or so my husband believes. Taking incredibly hot showers is one of the few personal pleasures that I still indulge in…daily. Scalding hot showers, in my humble opinion, are one of the greatest luxuries to being a middle-class American. This, however, is in direct conflict with my smoke/heat detector's opinion though.

This morning started off like any other. Wait. Not right. I was off of work. I had the day and the house to myself! I decided to take a shower so long & hot that I might just end up turning into a baked prune by the time I opted to get out. …And it was fabulous. Glorifying, that is – until I opened my shower curtain and started to dry off. The haze of the hot fog drifted from my bathroom where the door was open, and wafted into my bedroom. The smoke detector, of course, went off.

Now, see…this is a problem because my smoke detectors are wireless. When one goes off…they ALL go off. My house turned into a smoke detector rave. Loud beeping resounded through the master suite in my house (which is a Cape Cod – so, it takes up the entire upstairs). It was deafening. Here I am, soaking wet and being blasted by the heinous beeping of a smoke detector – all before 10AM. Wrong. Just wrong.

I quickly wrapped my towel around my dripping body and attempted to sprint to the smoke detector to shut it off. For those of you who know me, you know I’m a clod. Oh, I can be graceful – I typically wear stilettos, remember? My problem lies in that I attempt to do one tiny thing…and this whole calamity of errors follow thereafter. The rest below is what ensued on the day in question, Officer…

I quickly hopped over the edge of the tub, forgetting that I had removed the bathmat to wash it the day before. My wet foot hit the floor. I slipped. My loud curses were added to the incessant beeping. I picked myself up, and rearranged my towel where it would do me the most good – around my head. I NOW streaked across my bedroom to where the smoke detector is: mounted. on. my. ceiling. WTF?!?! I reach up. Just shy. DAMN! I jump. My still wet foot is probably going to slip on my stupid Berber carpet. [sigh] I quickly assess the situation, and realizing that my husband and his gangly 6’ 4” frame is not around to disarm the unwanted intruder in my morning of serenity; I need to find a way to do this myself – you know, before the neighbors call the fire department - the windows are open throughout the downstairs.

Looking behind me, I finally see something that will support my weight when stood upon, but stands the least chance of killing me in return [this whole thought pattern has already ruled out the computer chair on wheels]. Sadly, this “thing” is my daughter’s cedar hope chest. FULL of goodies (you know since I’ll never be able to afford that 13th goat). That blasted thing has to weigh close to 300 pounds. Shit. I decide to heave it over anyways…I only have to move one end about four feet.

I bend down. I grasp hold of the side handle. My towel begins to fall off my head. [Strangely your mind never seems to work properly in a moment of duress…this being no exception, I opt to save the towel amidst that beeping.] I move to salvage my turban. I bash my face on the top of the hope chest. A litany of swear words that would probably send my mother to an early grave, escape my mouth.

Finally, I get the hope chest dragged over. I climb up. I turn off the smoke detector. BEEP! “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I got a text message. I reach for my robe. Hobbling downstairs on my probably sprained ankle, with my broken ribs, what I am sure is a black eye and the giant goose egg on my forehead…I pick up my phone. My husband texted me to say, “Hope you’re enjoying your day off. I love you!” Impeccable timing as always, BJ. In my now surly mood, I have resolved to burn dinner and to punch him in the neck when he comes through the door…purely blaming my previous episode on his approval of the smoke detector location with our electrician. [sigh]

I’ll filth your foul, foul filth…

A few afternoons ago, I took my daughter to get her hair cut. It would be a nice time to talk to her about going back to school, calm any nerves and generally have a quaint mother/daughter moment. We were driving along down the road…

“Excited about going back to school?”

“Yes, but not really about getting up early. I like to sleep in. Although, I won’t have to eat breakfast with Noah anymore.”

This thought puzzled me. My kids are six, four and two-years-old, and are being raised as if they were all the same age. They enjoy nothing more than each other’s company. In fact, when they are apart, they’re kind of miserable; all mopey and asking when so-and-so is coming back…I waited a few beats, thinking she might elaborate. She did not. Her face was marred by this frightening scowl.

“Honey, why on Earth would you not want to eat with Noah?”

“Well, he gets in trouble every morning. He makes potty talk. He’s always saying things he shouldn’t and getting in trouble for it.” She starts gesturing wildly with her hands (their Nanny is Italian, so as assimilated by osmosis, my children believe they are Italian as well and constantly wave their hands about like mad little people). Her voice rises to a crescendo that reminds me of dog whistles. [Apparently, a distraught child’s voice can penetrate the parental lobe on a level that no one else can. My ears are starting to bleed…]

Somehow, my bloodied ears perk . I’m getting valuable intel! I’ve never heard that there was a problem at breakfast from our Nanny. Also, I don’t eat breakfast, so on the weekends, I’m not overly privy to my “sweet” son’s behavior. “What do you mean potty talk, baby?”

She sighs. Loudly. I can now tell she’s more than upset by this whole line of questioning. I urge her forward once more… ”It’s ok, sweetie, you can tell me. What does he say?” I’m slightly ashamed to think that I am terrified of what she’s about to say.

“HE SAYS POTTY WORDS!” she blurts out. I brace myself for the worst. [See, I have the mouth of a truck driver, one that I’ve been told would make a sailor blush, but I’m pretty good at containing it in front of the kids. I’ll admit, I’ve let a few f-bombs drop recently, but in my defense, I really, REALLY meant it.] I urge her once more to divulge what he says, wondering to myself – What hasn’t the Nanny told me?!? Finally, understanding she won’t get in trouble, she breaks down.

“He talks about poop. You know: poo-poo, pee-pee, doo-doo, crap, poopin’ (her voice is starting to pitch. drastically – almost bordering on hysteria), CRUD, DIARRHEA, POOP TOWERS!!!” I lost it. In my head, I can imagine my naughty little blonde boy with his Mohawk and animated grin calling his sister a “poop tower” and wildly flailing his pop-tart about. I stifle a giggle, which actually ends up coming out more like a suppressed snort, as if I’m drowning in the front seat. Thank God she is so upset she doesn’t notice my blunder. Ahhh, my informant - this kid needs to lighten up & laugh at poop humor…she’s got the rest of her life to be a stuffy adult who can’t take a joke.

“Honey, honey – what on God’s green earth is a poop tower?” I ask as seriously as I could under the circumstance.

“Well, IT’S A TOWER MADE OF POOP, you know?! He’s …so gross!…like - who would live in a tower of poop? I don’t want to smell it!” At this point, I’m also picturing her displeased and motherly face – you know, everything I’m not at the moment.

Luckily, I’m able to hold it together long enough to find a parking spot. I open the door for her, “Come on, Poop Tower – let’s go get your hair cut,” I say as I take her hand. Wow. From the look on her face, I can tell who’s currently been relegated to the "poop tower" in my house. Nope…this is never going to get old.

Don't Forget the Lyrics!

I married into a wonderful yet bizarre family. They have the most peculiar and sometimes lovably quiry traits…all of them. One in specific leaves me quite dumbfounded. They all love to sing…and best of all…not many love hearing their singing in return. They’re quite tone deaf, you see. But that’s not the extraordinary part. The extraordinary part is that none of them can remember lyrics. Imagine car trips, filled with a bunch of tone deaf people making up their own lyrics. It IS quite amusing.

Now, I can understand you thinking, you don’t remember the lyrics to every song; and that frankly some songs are quite tricky. This is not the case. These people don’t know lyrics to songs they profess to be their favorites, or sung by their favorite bands. They own the albums even!

A favorite past time of mine is to sit and listen to my husband’s latest rendition of any given song playing on the radio at the moment. Some times, I laugh so hard at what he’s altered the lyrics to be that I can’t even turn the radio off & correct him [usually, I try to let him know what they actually ARE saying]. Some times, after that, he will not continue singing. Instead, he’ll mouth the words…even mouthing words when the music has gone into a guitar riff.

For example: Aqualung. I’ve heard (second hand) that in my husband’s rendition, Aqualung watches little girls with battered head; instead of bad intent. I’m curious as to what a battered head is, and why poor Aqualung has one. If that is the case, should he not be in the hospital, rather than on a park bench scoping out under-aged children? I digress… In any case, you get the point and it opens up entire realms in which to make fun of these poor people.

My sister-in-law believes Wonderful Tonight to be a beautiful and touching song, which leads me to believe she has no idea what the lyrics are. Someday, I’ll break the news to her that it is about a drunk, drug addict thanking his wife for seeing him home once again. Kudos to everyone who used this as their wedding dance song! BTW: in case you did this…be thankful you didn’t choose the Police's I’ll Be Watching you. Which only eeks out Wonderful Tonight in the wedding dance moronic creep factor. But, then again, maybe you intend to stalk your new spouse. Who knows? Just remember, every breath you take…I’ll be watching you. Ewww, pervert.

Beyond Thunderdome...

I’ve always found it endearing how much my husband loves me, and by me in this instance, I mean: my smell. We’ve slept on everything from cots, pull out couches, the floor, twin beds, you name it all the way on up to our now upgraded king-sized bed. It was always deliriously cute how he’d scootch over to snuggle and burrow his face into my hair, take a deep breath and sigh.

I realized it was my innate smell (similar to how a baby smells to their mother – sounds weird, but I can tell which of my kids wore something or used a blanket by its lingering aroma), one day a while back when I caught him napping. He was on my side of the bed, face buried in my pillow. It wasn’t my pillow you see – ours were the same. Couldn’t be that my side of the mattress was more comfortable…we rotate ours. Couldn’t be that side of the bed, which doesn't have a slanted ceiling – we’ve tried switching. It had to be my smell…he tried to get close to me even in his slumber. How freaking sweet! Captivating; even, that is…until last night.

Last night we had some massive thunderstorms roll through. I had already woken up. [sometimes it sucks being the only person in my house who doesn’t sleep like the dead] I was listening to the delightful sounds of the storm (I’m a T-storm junkie) and caught a few glimpses of lightning completely illuminating our bedroom. I slowly and begrudgingly drifted back into a peacefully contented sleep.

BANG! My head whacked my nightstand on the way down. “What in the hell?!?” I look over to find my husband, on my side of the bed, face once more submerged into my pillow. He had shoved me clear off the bed in his attempt to invade my personal sleeping space! This is not cute, it is not sweet, it is not endearing. IT WAS ENFURIATING! I went to bed late. I’ve been averaging four hours rest on a good night lately…and there he was mouth-breathing away into MY PILLOW. Christ, one of the reasons we got a king sized bed to begin with, was so that he could have a whole eight feet to himself and his gangly arms and legs, leaving me to occupy a measley 16 inched width and sleep hovering on the edge!

In a bold and rash move, I snatched the pillow from under his head and bashed him in the face with all the force my memory foam could muster. “GET THE HELL BACK ON YOUR OWN SIDE, MOUTH-BREATHER!” He sat up. He blinked. “My bad…” he mumbled. He rolled (and rolled, AND ROLLED – it’s a king sized bed, for God's sake) over and within another 60 seconds, he was mouth-breathing and snoring away. I fluffed my pillow and crawled back onto my soft cloud of heaven. I rolled. I tossed. I turned. Funny how that surge of adrenaline kept me up for another hour while he chopped broccoli until the cows came home.

In my fit of sleeplessness, I’ve discovered my ultimate end game. I’m going to stop showering. I may be dirty; but my pillow (and side of the bed for that matter) may just end up being mine after all.

Attic Attack

Recently, my mother hounded me into going home to root through her attic before she called a company to dredge through it and remove everything for a minimal fee. I did what any grown child would do to their demanding parent…I put her off for months. Finally, after she pestered me for the 400th time (my mother has the tenacity of a honey badger) I agreed to come out in two days time. See, two days was what I needed to fortify myself for this undertaking…well, that and to con a friend into helping me.

I immediately conned the friend. Then, I actually started to get excited about it. I would be digging through my childhood, and I distinctly recall the attic being a treasure trove of goodies and fabulous used clothes. In the least, I figured I could snatch some of my old toys for my kids, and pick some snazzy costume jewelry for me. We suited up!

We arrived at Mom’s at 9am. I pulled on the attic hatch and down came creaky old rickety stairs. We climbed up, and were greeted with the smell of neglect. I flipped the light switch and stepped into the harsh realities of my youth. Garbage bags filled with awesome ‘retro’ clothes were actually tattered, dirty and eerily creepy fur coats, threadbare nightgowns and polyester contraptions that no self-respecting human would put on in this day & age. I sighed. I was hopeful for a Halloween costume or two; I guess this year I’ll be donning something store bought once more.

I perked up, “OVER THERE! In the back…I think those are my toys!”

We waded through piles and piles of papers that my mother should have burned or thrown out decades ago. I knocked over countless stacks of books (and not good ones either – bizarre self-help books with accompanying audio cassette tapes). Finally, I think: the reason I actually came. [strange, the box was nowhere as big as I remember] In it were some pathetic things indeed. It was like a real-life Island of Misfit Toys. There was a pink opossum missing an eye, a dirt stained kitty puppet, random dollar store fodder and the only salvageable saving grace…Ashleigh.

Ashleigh was a disturbingly empty commentary on my battered childhood. Ashleigh was my red-headed Cabbage Patch. Ashleigh had a bag of homemade clothes. Ashleigh had ears I had pierced myself. Ashleigh was my best friend; hell, she may have been my only friend much of the time. Grown up Me stood, stooped in my mother’s attic, clutching this dingy piece of memorabilia; overwhelmed with the need to cry. The sum total of my childhood resulted in a singular shoddy piece of redemption…Ashleigh.

In the glaring moments in that dim lighting of the attic, I came face to face with the blaring realities of my life. I know I didn’t have much of a childhood (for reasons I shall not bore you with – other than stating my mom was sick and we were poor). I now understand it is different to know that behind closed doors, never really sharing it with anyone - and to stand amidst it clutching your one thing of value – long forgotten for over 20 years. I took Ashleigh home.

That night, I tenderly cleaned Ashleigh. I brushed her hair (which is very life-like). I delicately washed her clothes. I took a deep breath and took Ashleigh upstairs. My oldest daughter was playing in the living room. I asked if I could have a moment…

“I want you to meet someone special to me. This is Ashleigh. Ashleigh grew up with me. She keeps secrets better than anyone. She gives the best hugs when Mommy can’t. She’ll always love you, and best of all - she’ll never leave you. Would you like to have Ashleigh and introduce her to your other babies?” I waited nervously, hopefully. I wasn’t quite sure what I was anticipating. I held my breath. Then the most wonderful thing happened.

My daughter looked up at me, with her intelligent eyes and said, “You loved her? She was your friend? [nodding her head] Yes, I love her, Mommy. She’s so beautiful, and has such nice hair. She’s perfect! Are those her clothes?” I pushed the bag of clothes over. In that moment, my daughter changed everything. Her mere acceptance of a silly doll took a lifetime of loneliness and transformed it into something remarkable.

I’m glad Ashleigh has a new best friend…one who sparkles and laughs. She deserves it.

The Gas Company

I married into the gassiest family on the planet. No, not oil riggers who live in Texas. Think more like bean eating, fiber-loving, green cloud excreters. I knew this going in. It wasn’t a problem for me…I have next to no sense of smell. Although, I was sometimes embarrassed by the outright blatancy of these tooters, I was willing to over look the entire issue for love. …until recently.

Recently, it came to weigh very heavily on me that my goal of raising kids to the ripe old age of 18 before throwing them out of my house and changing the locks may never come to fruition. Not only does this sadden me, it leaves me with an impending sense of dread. The reason you see, is because my oldest child is going to live with me forever. I’m never going to be able to marry her off.

See, she’s not ever going to be a trust fund baby. The most I can hope for is that I will be able to one day purchase that 12th goat that will stand as the biggest dowry upgrade that anyone inside of Zanzibar has ever seen…either that, or finding some poor deaf mute in Papua New Guinea who is oblivious to their olfactory living conditions who won’t mind taking her in.

The in-laws find it appropriate to bust ass whenever the urge strikes. Walking through a store, in mixed company and most horrifyingly at the dinner table - all fair play for this quartet of flatulence factories. Each time this happens, I remind my husband that polite society dictate that no one anally omit noxious odors before witnesses. He merely giggles. Or so he did, until our lovely little girl "ripped a hole" in one of my dining room chairs while eating. It was like the heavens opened and shined a dawning light upon his psyche, he must have had visions of the fleeting Zanzibari goat herders slipping through his grasp and our dreams of a quiet homestead squashed…forever.

“Honey, if you need to make stinky tooters, you should excuse yourself to do it in the bathroom; not at the dinner table. It is rude.”

5 minutes later, my daughter loudly announces, “I NEED TO FART!” She bolts from the table. By going into the bathroom, I had actually meant – go into the bathroom, close the door and discretely break wind. My daughter’s interpretation was to barely aim her rear end into the bathroom from the doorway and cut the cheese as if her life depended on it. PPPFFFFFFT, POOOOOT, PFFFFFTBANG! [at this point, I’m certain that I will need to buy her new underwear]. “Ahhhhh, much better!” Then rampant giggling ensues…and not from my oldest, my pride & joy. Nope, I look over to find hubby’s shoulders shaking with mirth.

That night, I sobbed myself to sleep. I’m quite certain that the faint sounds of bleating goats floated away on the wind of my fitful slumber…

A Word From Dora...

Admittedly, much to my father’s chagrin (please note that he was a Social Studies teacher for over 30 some-odd years), I suck at geography, social studies and history. He’s had the audacity to ask me before where Greece was. “I have no idea. Instead, how about I name you like five of their Ancient God’s and/or Goddesses?” He stared at me, speechless (I bet that’s exactly the look on my face when my kid says something priceless...), and then began to wonder, aloud, rhetorically, to himself, how I ever expected to travel (across whatever ocean it is I’d have to cross to get there); “Jesus Dad…I’d get there like everyone else: by booking a flight, going to the airport, arriving and then hopping on a tour bus. And mind you, I don’t even have to know how to get to the airport. I have a GPS!” [My father has made scowling an art.]

Which brings me to my husband. He’s brilliant, and I love him for it. Man, his brains are sexy. …and on top of that, he’s everything I’m not. He’s patient, he’s soft-spoken and most importantly for this scenario – he’s up to date on world events (past & present) and well versed in geography and social studies. We really are a great team. I’m sure with his help, my dad can rest easy, that in my ultimate retardedness, I’ll someday be able to travel to Greece and arrive safely with the other half’s superior intellect in tow.

Frankly, the above is the reason why, the other night, my husband left me staring at him with absolutely nothing to say. Nada. Zero. Zip.

I walked into the living room and plunked down next to him on the couch. On TV was some sort of educational NatGeo or Green Planet show (little known fact – we’re educational TV junkies). “Hmmm, what’s this – isn’t that Kilimanjaro? Nín hǎo. Oh, come on. Don’t you remember the episode of Dora where she goes to China and also whatever country that mountain is located in…and learns to say Nín hǎo? You know: SWIPER NO SWIPING!!!”

“OMG, Cath…you do realize that they wouldn’t say Nín hǎo if you visited Mt. Kilimanjaro? You DO know that Mt. Kilimanjaro is located in Africa, right?”

“Yessssss. I know that. I was merely quoting that Dora episode that is now stuck in my head. Alls I can remember about it is she kept saying Nín hǎo, as they went to China first…THEN Tanzania, and now the kids say it all the freaking time – as if we are in China at this very moment. BTW: how was it they’d say ‘HI’ if you were dense enough to climb that mountain? ..bout the only thing I can’t remember from that episode.”

“Well, they’d say it however you’d say ‘hi’ in African.”

This time, it is my turn to just stare, mouth agape…Words, for one of the few moments in my life escape me. I’m barely able to hiss out a “WOW, BJ, wow…” I actually think about calling my father (except that it is after 10pm) and telling him that my husband, whom he loves more than he loves me most days, has no idea where Mt. Kilimanjaro is located (further than Africa, even though I had JUST said it) and that apparently, if we were to go there…you know, on safari or something…our guide might just be speaking African.

Kenny Rogers Roasted Her?

So, last night, the 6 year old and I had it out. This happens from time to time. Sometimes, it can be frustrating. Sometimes, it can be an effort in Herculean self-control not to say what I really think…and sometimes, some VERY special times, I make myself laugh. Hysterically. No joke.

Last night was one of those very special times. My daughter (who incidentally believes she is the Queen Bee in the house and is approximately going on 36 years old), has gotten quite sassy in the last few months. She’s testing the waters of her self-assuredness, which all things considered is very apropos for her age and totally understandable. I do not however, have to like what is being said, or more officially the tone of disrespect with which it is being said. You got it. My house is militant…and I am the Drill Sergeant. I fancy myself being a relatively “decent to good” type of parent.

“Go ahead kid and assert your authority, make your decisions, but here’s this line in the sand. Be careful not to cross it.”

For the last few weeks, I have been wracking my brain AND pocketbook in an attempt to make new dinners. Something that would be tasty enough for us grownups to actually stomach, but mute enough and visually pleasing so that little kids might venture a forkful into their mouths. Every night, every new creation has been greeted with various disdain from the peanut gallery. One night it just became too much to bear.

“Why did you make that? I’m not eating it. I don’t want to try it. Can’t you just make something you know I like? I’m just sick and tired of eating this stuff.” I had had enough. Something inside me snapped…a rant of monumental proportions bubbled up.

”Really? REALLY?!?! This is what you’d like to pick a fight about? Trust me, I’m going to win this one… Every day, I go to work. I earn a modest amount of money. That salary buys the groceries that I go to the store to shop for. Those foodstuffs go into the wonderful dinners that I lovingly prepare for this family. They have each of the four food groups, and no, I’m not talking about Go-gurt, Pop-Tarts, Frosting and Dino chickens…. Every night I try to make something else I think you MIGHT eat due to the fact that you’ve near refused everything else I’ve ever served you. Since you really seem to be a Master Chef, worthy of Chef Gordon Ramsey’s approval – I revoke all my cooking AND comestibles shopping duties unto you. I expect no less than I give, which means: I want 14 different dinners (planned out for every day for the next two weeks), the edibles shopped for and purchased in the confined restriction of our budget , and all of those hot piping meals on the table by no later than 5:45pm.”

I’m sure I’m not the first and I’m certain I won’t be the last parent to ever have this conversation. My daughter stared up at me. I decided to be on the same level. I stopped setting the table and sat down in a chair in the living room. My husband was humming to himself and filling his glass of water in the kitchen.

Oddly, the kid didn’t get the hint and kept right on going, “I don’t want to do all that. I just would like it if you would stop making these (said with loathing) dinners and make only what I like…”

The most bizarre thing happened just then. I am still not quite sure what came over me. Maybe it was the Gambler himself. I can’t be certain. I started to sing. Loudly, and most certainly off-key. “You got to know when to hold them. Know when to fold them. Know when to walk away – Yeah, that means you kid…Know when to run. You never kick the cooker, when it’s time to come to dinner. There’ll be time enough for role reversal, when you’re all grown up.”

Quite possibly, there was a snort of laughter from the kitchen, I can’t be sure. My daughter looked at me again, “I just lost, didn’t I?”

“You did. Now, wash up for dinner and not another word.” I slowly sashayed into the dining room, muttering to myself: If you're gonna play the game, kid…You gotta learn to play it right.

Firmly Grounded, But With Great Shoes

I have a stiletto addiction. There, I said it. It’s quite pathetic, actually. Ice pick heels that are a minimum of 4” just make my day, especially if they are 9 West. I have no idea why…well, actually I do. See, I find stilettos, if you can walk in them; the most liberating and forgiving of all shoes. Here’s why:

Got a big butt? Not in stilettos you don’t! You’ve suddenly got small ankles and svelte calves. You’ve got an amazing talent for walking on the equivalent of a tightrope with bound toes. Ahhh, refreshing. Got Coach Bags under your eyes, all packed from one of your recent all-nighters? Not in stilettos…Trust me. Once you strap a fashionable pair of these slick puppies on, no one is looking at your face with anything other than dumbfounded admiration for the monumental feat you have just pulled off. Ears that stick out? A lazy eye? Having a bad hair day? Stilettos can fix ALL of that.

Now, I’ll admit that most of my stilettos don’t go with the rest of my “White trash active Mom” wardrobe. Sometimes, I’ll admit people stare strangely when I grocery shop in my stilettos. Hey, I’m just trying to relive a tiny bit of the good ole days and pretend to be June Cleaver. Nevermind that I’m not wearing a dress or pearls…my sweatpants and ratty t-shirt with bleach stains are the modern equivalent.

Now, now…I know what you are thinking – those things are uncomfortable. Well, so is my underwear, which proper etiquette dictates that I wear every day. I personally find stilettos to be very comfortable – so I’d normally say, “Suck it up!” But, in defense, I’m going to list a few of the reasons that stilettos are so wonderful; outside of keeping your tootsies dry in a rainstorm.

 If you are being attacked, a stiletto can also serve as a weapon of self defense
 Wearing stilettos can near immediately get you labeled as a bitch – which can also be a great self preservation mechanism for anyone who is easily walked upon my their acquaintances
 When thrown with the proper velocity, a stiletto can knock down a kid who’s been wrongdoing, from about 20 paces (think boomerang here)
 Strangely, your boobs are elevated to a new level where most men are nearly FORCED to actually look at your face for once.
 Stilettos take mere moments to put on and take off…no more trying your laces
 With much less surface area – it is much more difficult to actually get dog poop on your shoe
 Stilettos can send a message – anything from “FU, I’m not interested in your silliness” to “I’d really like to FU” if worn properly

And never, ever forget…stilettos look totally hot with those sweatpants.

I Got Bim Bam Banana Pops...Dixie Cups

Recently, I was reminded of a long passed (or so I thought) suburban phenomena…the ice cream man. Back in the days before there was CNN or the internet or unlimited txt plans to expose them – there was a lone kid, (I say this, imagining a late teen’d, early 20’d skater dude) who drove through our neighborhood selling wares from the back of his beat up pick-up truck. He came by just after dinner…and he drove slowly, as if a fisherman trolling for bass.

His little bell would ring, and you would have to run nearly half a block and amass a moderately sized mob to qualify to actually make him stop. All the while, screaming your fool head off, “Ice cream man…STOP! I have money!” oh, and wildly shaking your arms above your head as you ran. He’d finally stop, and then you handed him a pile of sweaty coins in hopes you had enough to buy a giant pink foot with a gumball toe (or, if you were my friend Amanda, you handed him your Monopoly Money and got handed, in return, your marching orders).

Either my perceptions have severely changed, or they’ve taken to giving ice cream man jobs to recently released pedophiles.

The ice cream man in my neighborhood makes ME scared to contemplate buying something from the back of his rusted out ’82 Datsun pick-up. I’ve also now taken to questioning whether I’d ever be able to live with myself for spending close to $20 for a family of 5 to sample what I could easily pick up from my local Wegs for about $3. My children have yet to learn what that strange bell ringing is at approx. 5:30pm WHILE we are eating dinner – Seriously?!? You can’t wait 1.5 hrs longer in the summer months to hit kids who already ate? …and that is coming from someone who is aware they feed their family pretty early, relatively speaking.

Instead, it is me who runs to the window or the door to see him casing out the ‘hood, and to decide who it is. I’ve started playing a game with myself. I’m coming up with new & creative names for each of the ice cream men I see (whether it is in my neighborhood or someone else’s). [as a side note – my husband has tried himself to name these men…and failed miserably].

In total, I’d like to say, “Let me introduce you to: “ but in actuality, that isn’t happening, b/c I doubt I’ll ever meet them myself, but here goes: scoping out kiddies on my block is Matt, Matt – could use a bath. The suburb one over from me across a mere bridge has Mitch, Mitch – the biker bitch who peddles there [in example – my husband named him ZZ Top. Creative, honey]. In my friend’s area on the east side of town is Randy, Randy – don’t you want some candy? And lastly, over by my work is Tim, Tim – I’m not sure he’s a him, who’s trying to seduce me with his(?) Nutty Buddy…

All in all, these charming and dashing gentlemen have ruined a treasured pastime that I had hoped to share with my children. Instead, they leave me feeling cold and empty with a slight suspicion of anyone driving slowly past my house. I just can’t care, no matter how alluring your Bomb Pop just might be.

Snap Into a Slim Jim!

A few weeks ago, a legend from my childhood passed on. I took a brief second to reflect how Macho Man Randy Savage shaped much of my life. After that moment of contemplation, I took an additional three winks to thank God that I’m still alive.

I have two significantly older brothers. For a few years of my young life, these then teenage boys were given authority over me as “babysitters”. I think the proper term that would be used in 2011 would be terrorists, but I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt on a technicality. My brothers, like most teenage boys, were fans of the ever growing in popularity WWF, in the 1980’s. They had their heroes. They emulated them…well, at least while “watching” me.

Countless times, I was the victim, no…test dummy…no, AHA! I was the excited participant in WWF wrestling bouts in my living room (sense my sarcasm oozing out yet?). My brothers practiced such moves as The Sleeper Hold, The Cobra Clutch, The Boston Crab AND the often imitated but never properly duplicated: Pile Driver. These boys were not professionals. They did not have a spring-loaded floor. Hell, they didn’t even wear ill fitting spandex…for some things; I guess I should be thankful.

I’ve been dropped kicked, pinned up against the “ropes” (usually that meant pinned between the couch & the wall), rug burned, Indian burned, eyes poked, hair pulled and mostly subdued into submission with threats of death or other violence. We had tag team matches with other neighboring kids…many older siblings got free range to beat the hell out of their younger and punier counterparts, who like me were always in tow.

So, in this brief moment of joyous meditation and introspection, I’m going to merely list the things that the Macho Man might have had an inadvertent hand in that has shaped who I am:
 If you do it just right, you can head butt most anyone unconscious
 Value a low center of gravity
 One can clothes-line most any sized adult clear off their feet – see the above in list for additional tutelage
 If you’re going to bite, do it with the side of your mouth, so they can’t put whatever it is you’re biting so far in as to gag you or render your biting useless
 Spitting is the fastest way to turn someone else into the aggressor
 Anything in a living room can be fixed with superglue, clear nail polish or wall putty
 Chest hair can always be pulled to buy yourself 5 seconds when straits seem most dire

These fabulous things kept me safe on a college campus where guys outnumbered girls 7 : 1. They morphed me into a phenom. rugby player. Each earned me countless ounces of respect from potential suitors…and one, ONE most important one earned me the love and devotion of my now husband. Thank you, Randy Savage…Thank you.

You Dented The Siding!

So, recently, I tried to relive some good memories of my childhood. A favorite game of mine (growing up poor in the sticks, keep in mind) was Annie, Annie OVER! This game is simple enough. Split up into two teams. Kick a ball over your house and yell, “Annie, Annie OVER!”. The other team has to catch it w/o bouncing on the ground. If they do – GAME ON! …the chase begins around the house. The kickers have to get all the way back to their side w/o being hit, dodge-ball style, by the receivers. If you’re hit, you’re a part of the opposing team. If it bounces before the other team catches it, they kick…and so on, until there’s only one team standing.

My Dad’s house was a single story Ranch style. My house is a Cape Cod. Close enough. My dad had no trees in his yard. My house is surrounded by massive trees of all types & sizes. I quickly explain the game to my husband (by this point the 6 & 4 year olds are screaming with excitement to play). We look objectively at the house. We size up our scenario. There’s only one small window of playing opportunity…and it is a four foot width over our garage. Sad thing about this…there’s a retaining wall the opposite side of the garage, with a six foot drop. Of course I send my husband into the back yard, with my four-year-old son. Here is what ensues:

I scream, “Annie, Annie OVER!” I kick the ball. The ball hits our house, bounces off and onto the top of the garage. The ball springs off the garage roof and slams into the side of my neighbor’s house. Ooops. I tromp into their yard to snag my ball back. I yell again. Kick. The ball soars above the garage. I swear softly to myself. It is batted down by a pine tree. The ball bounds back to the driveway. My two-year-old claps and squeals, “Do it again, Mommy.” I now see my son leering at me from the breezeway into the backyard. I’ve begun mumbling to myself. My oldest tells me that this game is no fun. I kick again. This time the ball flies up, hits the roof, smashes into another tree branch, bounces off in pinball fashion into my house, back into the garage, into my kitchen window and lastly, blasts my baby in the head. She’s knocked clear to the ground. [Thank God they have an unnatural love for and wear their bicycle helmets all the time]

“IS THE BALL COMING OVER OR WHAT?!?”

I’m doubled over in laughter. The littlest attempts to kick it over the house. [my back still hurts from that one] Finally! I nail it and the ball courses over the roof perfectly. We wait. And wait…and wait. THERE THEY ARE! I scoop up the baby (she’s no good running on her own) and bolt around the garage. OMG! I’m hefting a near 35lb kid while trying to run my out of shape body around my house. I try not to stumble…last thing I want to do is fall, land on the kid, and have to explain to family & friends how the baby died: “Yeah, so we were playing this game you see…and I crushed her.” No good.

I’m running (a feat in and of itself), carrying the biggest two-year-old known to God, trying not to trip and fall when my daughter loudly announces, “Daddy’s coming Mommy! Go faster!” Are you kidding me???

“Cap’n, I’m givin’ her all I’ve got!”

“You’re so funny. I have to pee.” Well…that motivates me. Not wanting to take a dodge ball to the head or get peed on, I run for my life. I wind up back in my front yard, standing in the driveway, wishing for a sudden thunder storm and praying for death. Out of breath and thinking this is much harder when you’re 25 years older…my children scream and whoop and beg, “Let’s do that again!”

I look at my husband. [sigh] I yell, “Annie, Annie OVER!” and kick the ball into the garage door…

Out Of Body Experience

Ever had one of those horrible flip out moments, where you just completely lose your mind…and strangely at the same time, you’re standing beside yourself utterly sane? Let me walk you through my most recent pointless meltdown. It all began simple enough. Needless to say, I must have been stressed up to my eyeballs for this monumental of a blow up over a herb. Mt. Kilimanjaro would have been envious.

Tonight for dinner, we’re having meatloaf, green beans and sour cream & chive mashed potatoes. Everything is done, except for the addition of the chives. I open the cupboard. A little voice in my head tells me to calm down. “There’s no chives?” I spin my Lazy Susan. “Where the hell are the CHIVES?!?!” I spin Susie again, this time with much more vehemence. I look at my husband [let me interject…right about now, I’ve stepped outside of myself. There are two of me in the kitchen. One a rampaging lunatic, the other the model of serenity.]

“DO YOU KNOW WHERE MY CHIVES ARE? I wouldn’t just NOT buy more if we were out!!!” [Insert my husband’s blank stare.] Lucid Me tells Psychotic Me to settle down…it’s just chives. Stupidly, I don’t like that bit of advice and proceed to slam shut the cupboard door with the same force as a category 5 hurricane. “Look what you just did, Over-reactor…now you have to clean up your spice rack.” Even the voice in my head has banded forces with the AWOL chives to conspire against me to thwart my charming dinner. At this point, since the onlookers are gawking, I decide to remove myself from the entire scenario. I stomp upstairs. Cursing loudly, smashing my foot into a misplaced toy, tripping over the desk chair, spilling a cup of water (somehow I also wound up with a paper cut) - I sit down. Even the cat is now peering at me.

“Really, Cat?!? You think YOU could do it better? YOU CAN’T MAKE SOUR CREAM & CHIVE MASHED POTATOES WITHOUT THE CHIVES….Otherwise, it’s mashed potatoes that taste funky.” Sensible Me sits down, puts an arm around Unstable Me, tsking all the while. Slowly, the two mes begin to merge back into one slightly more reliable marble-holder. I realize I just challenged my kitten into a cook-off. Laughingly, with self-degradation, I look at the cat once more, “Going to be a bitch to beat me without that opposable thumb.”

I get up to go back downstairs, ready to make my apologies to my family who is now sitting at the table. With an impish grin, my husband hands me the bowl of potatoes and says, “Want some? They’re good, but would be better with some chives….”

Mary Had a Little Lamb

Quite possibly the world’s greatest invention, IMHO, is The Sleep Sheep. This enchantingly soft, fluffy and lovable character restored the sanity to my home countless times. See: people are Pavlovian. Provide constant stimuli and we’ll continually furnish you with the same response. And for the most part, infants are just little people. Stimulus/response…stimulus/response (already I’ve noted you’re drooling).

A newborn cries, little bundle gets changed and fed, and finally the wee bairn is lulled to sleep by Mommy’s gentle touch and the constant sounds of Sleep Sheep’s riveting yet monotonous racket. Soon, said tot needs less lulling by Mommy and can rely exclusively upon the gentle cocoon of security afforded by the TOTALLY life-like whale sounds. Seriously?!? Whale sounds… I attended R.I.T., needless to say, it sounds less like “Whale sounds” (which I’ve never actually heard) than it does deaf people having sex (which I actually HAVE heard), but who am I to judge the sick sense of humor afforded the Sleep Sheep manufacturers.

Sleep Sheep is so amazing that not only does she put cranky babies to sleep, Sleep Sheep can work her magic on grown-ups alike. Hell, Sleep Sheep, blared loud enough can out deaf-sex any sniveling bundle of joy – especially at 3am. Wait, that just doesn’t sound right. Sleep Sheep can out whale any wailing nipper – no matter the time of day! Yes, that’s much better…

Sleep Sheep is my BFF. Once a long term sufferer of insomnia, I rest quite well now. I can crawl into bed, turn on Sleep Sheep with her preposterous white noise and [well, so I’ve been informed] sleep straight through my husband coming upstairs, turning on all the lights in our room, smashing his foot into his dirty clothes basket and the ensuing swearing, flip on Transformers (the movie) to at least volume 24, brush his teeth, rearrange the entire left side of our bed, pull the blankets off of me, unceremoniously fling himself onto the mattress and fart loudly. [that’s always the best one the next morning – “I even farted really loud, and God did it smell…but you didn’t even budge.” Yes, honey – you’re a prize.] Thank you, Sleep Sheep.

Many times, while looking back on my childrens’ infancy fondly, I’m forced to wonder: how on earth did I withstand the awesome power of Sleep Sheep back then and not drop the baby on their little noodle? Wistfully, I turn my attention back to my kids playing in the driveway. Two of them are wearing helmets for no reason, other than, “We like helmets, Mommy.” While the third could possibly be the poster child for birth control…and I’m confounded. How many times DID I drop them due to Sleep Sheep’s seductive allure? On second thought…curse you Sleep Sheep…CURSE YOU!

Linda Blair

Two Words. Projectile. Vomit. When I say it in my head, it feels more like a paragraph than two simple words. Once upon a time, I was uncomplicated, unspoiled…and well, puke free. Back in those days, projectile vomit was something I had heard of but never experienced. It was that funny thing that happened to Frat Boys who had eaten bad chicken wings the night before a bender.

In any case – did you know that stuff can actually launch 6 feet? I sure as hell didn’t. It was a scene straight out of the Exorcist (which, incidentally – I always thought was contrived; the barf scenes that is). How terribly mistaken I was!

I was awoken in the wee hours of the morning by the bellowing cries of my infant daughter. I rushed down to her crib. I pick her up…as she is facing away from me (and now, I look back and all I can think is, “Sweet Jesus…thank you for that.”), I move to her changing table b/c something just doesn’t smell right. Oh, little did I know…that the smell I thought was the meager “stinky-poo” my bundle of love had made was really Hades reincarnate trying to escape the Underworld via the porthole of my baby’s mouth.

Upchuck hurled out in a fire-hose blast that was so powerful, it knocked me backwards. I stood transfixed. It went full force and nailed a wall easily 5 feet away. I must have screamed, as my husband ran downstairs. He called my name, "Cathy?". I turned. The hork followed suit. In a stream lasting what probably was a sum of 30 seconds, I took out 3 out of 4 bedroom walls, a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, two dressers, a toy box, much of the floor, the dog and the front of my now appalled husband. Immediately, my twisted mind thought, “If we could unleash this power properly; we’ll never have to pay to power wash the house again.”

The baby, unscathed in this whole extravaganza, burped once (to which, I almost dropped her on the floor and ran for my life) and passed right out. It was in that precise moment, I realized that the saying “sleeping like a baby” meant you could wake up screaming, yak your guts out and go right on back to sleep without a care in the world…the next time someone says, “Oh, she’s sleeping like a baby.” I’m bolting for the door.

Inna Wata!

Recently, my husband & I were invited out on a local harbor cruise with some friends. The cruise was touted as being a Jamaican cruise. My friends are Jamaican. There was reggae, there was bumping, there was curried goat, there was no rum punch…I was disappointed. I digress. Let me describe Liv. Liv is a (this is an official Jamaican term, btw) BIG DOOD – he’s about 6’5”, braided hair, with a charming and easy-going smile. His wife, Thalia, always looks like she is up to trouble. Of course, this means that she & I get along extremely well – even if she still thinks she is in the motherland and drives on the wrong side of the road from time to time. I've learned to wear a seat belt.

Prior to departing my house, she informs me of the monumental importance of this trip; as Liv is afraid of the water. He cannot swim. “In fact, “ she says, “probably 90% of Jamaicans can’t swim.” I don’t laugh at her joke…if only I knew then [shaking head]. We park the car. I ask what boat we are taking. “Di Titanic” is growled at me from somewhere in the front seat. Ok….these folk certainly are weird. But, hey! I dig culture as much as the next person…not to mention Rum Punch. We board the boat.

I notice that not many people are near the side of the boat. In fact, everyone kind of congregates right in the middle of the boat. The boat pitches gently, and a few shouts of, “Lawd Gad! Hav mercy!” can be heard, and I am struck dumfounded. These people really ARE afraid of the water! We sit down, and I lean across the table to Thalia, “You were born on an island for God’s sake…how can none of you [looking around] NONE OF YOU?!?! swim?” She stares at me and answers plain as day that most do not expect to have to swim off the island at any point in their lives. Again, I’m rendered speechless.

Liv joins us. He immediately notes the lifejackets over in the cabinets on the side of the main room, “Di life jacket dem ova deh so.” He looks petrified. At this point, I’ve already come to learn there is no rum punch aboard this vessel, and now I take it out on Liv, “Right. Also notice how many people are on the Titanic here…and how many preservers there are. I’m not good with numbers, but I suspect som di fok be gwon over wit no jacket.” [Thalia loves when I attempt Liv’s accent, and I love that I even understood what the hell he said.] We all get up for a bit.

I found myself randomly asking folks if they could swim. The resounding answer was, “NO!” People stared at me goggle-eyed before moving on…Fascinating. As the evening wore on, the hubs & I found ourselves on the side of the bow, facing the serene & tranquil water. I took a load off and sat on the railing for the briefest of moments. I must have had 15 people shout at me from various distances (depending on their direct fears of coming too close to the crazy woman who might jump), “Wat ye do? Git offa dere! CHO!” I’m sick in the head…at this point, I’d hook my leg onto the railing and lean over hollering, “Ruuuuuuuum Punnnnnnnnnch!” People screamed and darted away. I don’t know that I’ll be invited back.

I Love Lawn Gnomes

I’ve discovered the purpose of those houses whose front yards are plastered with various lawn decorations of all sorts of shapes & sizes. From children silhouettes playing hide & seek, the cow tail hose holder, pink flamingos and even the Virgin Mother in a ½ bathtub….it is to distract you from the crazy person “gardening”.

I’ll admit, I hate doing yard work. I have a black thumb (yet strangely the rosebushes that were in our yard long before our arrival; flourish every year, though I hack them down to nubby stumps every fall) and have attempted to kill every plant within my reach. I’d just as soon plow & pave my entire yard, paint it green and pretend it was a “lawn”.

My typical day out weeding goes something like this:
“Is that a weed? Honey!? Do you know what the hell that is? Is it supposed to be growing there?” No response, save for my oldest screaming, “Can I have your baby shovel (referring to my gardening spade)? I want to dig a big hole.” Fabulous. “No Digging!”
“Honey???”

At this point, I usually march into our garage in search of weed killer of some sort. In the process, about 6 different things from a shelf fall on my head. A spider lands on my face. I scream like a small child. My arms swat. More things fall from the shelf. I smash my big toe into the kids’ wagon. I then trip over a soccer ball, and land ass-over-teakettle on the ground, weed killer in hand and only partially wounded.

I hobble like Quasimodo back into my front yard. My hair is askew and covered in cob webs…I think I’m bruised up like a prize fighter. I’ve started mumbling to myself, “#%&*@!...weeds, $^*@!! that I have to do...” I’ve started gesturing with my hands as I encounter the hole dug near a tree in the yard, you know – the apparent escape effort of my daughter to evacuate her current hell & find her way to China. I drop the weed killer…it lands on my toe (you know, the one that just blasted a wagon?), I swear some more.

Finally, I blast the bejesus out of the offender in my mulch. Right then my husband walks up and informs me that I just sprayed the kids’ daisies that they planted last week. Noting the car driving by with lookie-loos as I start to pull my hair out…I realize how much more incognito I’d look if only I had a lawn full of atrocious ornaments.

Yep, she's Indian...

I've come to realize, since having kids...that these little individuals are hilarious. Their improper use of words, their inflection of voice and even their gestures are amazing. I'm the proud mother to three vibrant, creative and opinionated little cherubs. Ok, you're catching me on a good day - many times, I think I've spawned aliens. In any case, my "baby"; my two-year-old, we've discovered - is Indian.

Alright, that's not really PC - she's Native American. Don't let the blue eyes, tow-head and pale skin fool you...she's Indian (I'm already giving up on the PC thing...). This child has renamed herself, and most everything in our house. Gone are the days when you could simply call here by her mere first name. Now, you must address this Native Princess as "Leila Big Girl". She's the younger sister to "Noah Has A Mohawk" and "Callah Purple Glasses".

Yesterday, I made the mistake of not properly following the correct dissertation protocol when requesting Leila Big Girl's presence. I thought I was going to be scalped. She peered at me over her glasses (which magnify her bright blue eyes by about 1000%). She growled. She grabbed my face. I think she may have tried to bite me. And what normally is this sweet high pitched toddler voice was replaced by demon speak, "I LEILA BIG GIRL. YOU ARE NOT MY MOMMY!" Hey now, that was a bit uncalled for.

"I AM your mother. Now, get your hiney over here, I need to talk to you." Brave, bold move on my part. She rushed at me in a frenzy. Mashed her face against mine. I was sure a war cry was to follow. I was terribly amiss. Instead, in a voice straight out of the Exorcist, she informed me, "I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL!" Each shout became painfully (on my ear drums) more obvious that I was powerless to stop the name and culture change that just happened inside my home.

Having no longer remembered what the hell I even wanted from "Leila Big Girl", I got up and did what any other self-respecting parent would do...I grabbed my purse, told my husband I was going out, and asked if Target sold Chieftain Headdresses.

In a stroke of brilliance!

I’m not a picky eater…I don’t think. There are a few items I refuse to eat. I won’t eat these things, not b/c I don’t like how they taste but more b/c I don’t like their texture (yes…we can discuss my weird texture issues later). For years, I have been flinging unwanted raw onions or celery onto my husband’s plate. After 13 years, he has become quite adept at thwarting my attempts.

He’s fast to move his plate, and I chuck the offending vegetable on the table. He’s also taken to blocking the toss with his fork – deflecting my attempt, and usually winding the item onto some unsuspecting person’s plate. [This makes for extreme awkwardness when I don’t know the person in question]…”Yeah, I don’t like celery, I was giving it to him (pointing) and he thought you really wanted it instead.”

It really never dawned on me to make my kids eat them. Since I don’t cook with either, my older two are a lost cause, already having rooted their heels into stubborn eating habits – AKA: if it isn’t a nugget of some sort shaped like a dinosaur, they’re not trying it. That is…until the other evening.

A fund raiser for a local school saw the outdoor production of BBQ Chicken from a well known establishment, with two sides. My husband picked up this dinner…aww, how nice. He got all four of the sides, two for me, two for him. I made my selection. DAMNIALL! My macaroni salad has BOTH onions and celery in it (I should also insert here that husband doesn’t care for them either…). I begin the arduous task of picking them out.

“I’m not sure why everyone has to put this crap in their salads. It’s a complete texture confliction issue. The soft noodles, mayonnaise and eggs should not be mixed with the crunchy raw vegetable. It’s just wrong.” The two-year-old wanders up (having already eaten her dinner while I was at class). “Try some, Mommy?” OK. I scoop some noodles. She eats them. “Try some more?” The light bulb, due to being the tree hugger kind is sloooow to illuminate over my head…wonder if she’ll eat the onion. Hey - she will eat anything as long as it’s on someone else’s plate, so why not?

The fork scoops, the fork goes in mouth, she chews. I look at her screwed up face, “Whoa! Crunchy! YUMMMM!” She mimics, “YUM!” I offer an additional sample. More brazenly this time…I scoop only one pasta and one celery AND one onion. “YUM, CRUNCHY!” “YUM!” Her face might be stating otherwise. She chews. She comes back. Shamelessly, I scoop nothing but onions & celery. [HEY! Don’t judge, the kid already ate…I haven’t.] “Ooooh, crunchy!” “YUM?” Her beautiful cherubic face scrunches up in pure scrutiny.

At this point, my husband, whom has been the recipient of all of my “yucks” for the last 13 years jumps out of his chair and whoops out of sheer joy. “SHE ATE IT! SHE ATE IT!” Pointing at me, “Now, throw this crap on her plate and not mine!”

Never before have I seen another adult so quick to sell their kid out. Sensing something momentous has just occurred, my baby – the light of my life – claps, asks for more and is rewarded with a fork full of Mommy’s yucks, and I take a moment to revel in my stroke of brilliance six years in the making.

Man pants

For the record, I hate shopping…for myself. I do however, love to dress my family. I’m not sure my husband has bought a single piece of clothing in the last 10 years. I’m not sure I’d trust him if he attempted to. The last thing he bought for himself were some acid washed, tapered legged, black jeans. And, no…it wasn’t in the ‘80s…it was in this millennium. And yes, I do have photos! I digress.

Shopping for my family is easy. The husband’s size is determined by a measurement. I can walk into any store, pick up any pair of 34x36 (if I can ever find those) pants, pay and know they will fit. The waist may fluctuate an inch dependent on how many cookies I’ve baked recently, but his legs are as long as his legs always are. And kids are fantastic…give or take, their size is their age. Fabulous!

Me, on the other hand…I go into a panic attack just thinking about the purchase of a new pair of jeans. It usually plays out like this:

Tiny girl of age 18 and size 00 (incidentally, WTF is a size 00 – is that just a cruel way to make the size 0 girls feel fat?) accosts/greets me not even within 2 feet of the entrance. “Can I help you find anything?” I immediately punch her, snatch her bald-headed and run for the closest exit. Wait, no…that’s what I want to do. Instead, I sigh and bite the bullet. “Sure, sweet cheeks…you can help me find a pair of casual jeans that disguise the size of my ass, hide my ‘Mommy-junk’ commonly referred to as Muffin Top, will not scare my children with plumber’s crack, have not been bedazzled and are actually made of Denim and not 100% Lycra – it’s not a good look for me.”

She studies her manicure. “Hmmm. What size are you?” “In store A, I wear a 14, in store B I take a 16 in store C – whom are my favorite, but too far to drive, I’m a 12. In store D, I’m a 33 and lastly in store E, I’m a L. I have no idea what any of that means, or why I just had to be humiliated enough to state out loud.” Rolling her eyes, she puts me in a fitting room.

Over the course of the next 30 minutes, I try on about 15 pair of pants…and none fit. Too tight here, too big there. Most are not long enough, although strangely, I’m not considered tall. One pair, I’m certain were beamed here from another planet. One pair would be appropriate if I were to pick up a night gig as a street walker...even then I doubt I’d be paid much – except to go away. And I’m certain that one pair was thrown in b/c that tiny girl was filled with malice & spite.

Heartbroken and self-esteem in shreds, I leave the store, sans jeans. I do what any respectable woman does at this point. I go shopping for shoes. I come home with an expensive pair of stilettos, b/c HEY! They look great with these sweat pants…who needs jeans anyways?