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.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
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]
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]
Thursday, September 15, 2011
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.
“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.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
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.
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.
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