Have a happy and safe holiday season!
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
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…
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…
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
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?
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?
Thursday, December 1, 2011
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.
"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.
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