Typically this time of year I find myself cursing snow. This year is no exception, but I find my curses are much louder and for completely different reasons!
Normally, I hate how we are dumped on with Lake Effect snow belts and the natives to this frozen tundra seem to forget where they live six months of the year – preferring to believe they live in a warm & balmy state that does not get oodles of the white stuff. Or, so their driving would imply. Come on people, you drove in this crap last year! You should know better than to mash on your brakes on a bridge – it’s frozen, and you ARE going to slide. Seriously, are you tailgating me in this near white out? You should know, I have a manual transmission and I love to screw with people like you who violate my personal space…by jamming my Rugged Jeep down a gear to slow suddenly without ever touching my brake. I’m sure my spare tire will look lovely mounted/embedded in your hood.
Instead this month, I look around to the amazingly dreary place I call home. There is no snow to cover the fact that trees just look sickly this time of year. The soggy mud laden ground is not a wintery wonder to behold and lastly, there is NOTHING preventing my allergies from acting up. Yes. That godforsaken snow limits my misery for a few months out of the year due to nasal allergies. Instead, the blustery cold winds are whipping up some sort of unknown spore or pollen or random pieces of smoot that I am horribly allergic to. Are you kidding me? This is my payment for wishing for no snow?
Yesterday morning I woke up resembling Eric Stoltz from Mask. Well, either him or the Elephant Man. You can take your pick. In any case, I look like I had taken about six bee stings to the eye. It was nearly swollen shut. I had trouble breathing. My kids screamed and ran away from me in horror. Hell, I may have the greatest idea in biological warfare. Crop dust the enemy with the pollen of whatever, to the point of no escape and watch as they blow their noses, dry their watery itchy eyes, cough in dry throated terror and wallow in the depths of self pity; all the while wondering, “Where can I get something to treat this crap?!?!”
So far today, I’ve washed down two Benadryl, a Zyrtec, some Nasonex, 3 Extra Strength Tylenol with a steaming hot cup of detox tea. The swelling in my face is finally starting to subside, and I’ve been graced enough to be able to utter more than the feeble, “Mmmmfshs shhhfb,” this morning to the Nanny as I stumbled out the door for work. The side effects though have ranged from a slight twitchiness to the shakes and some random Tourrettes thrown in (yes, I’m talking about the loudly shouted swear word kind…)
Dear Mother Nature – I changed my mind…I’d like the snow back. And while you’re at it…[insert another Tourettes outbreak here]!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Bye-bye Birdie...
Recently, I found myself explaining to my children what “Flipping the Bird” is. Flipping the bird…what a funny expression – I cannot even fathom where that came from. In any case, it had all started out harmless enough.
We own quite a collection of movies. My precocious seven-year-old is getting bored with animated kid’s movies and wants to progress into real movies…you know the kind with actresses and actors. Innocently, she sidled into the kitchen while I was making dinner.
“Mommy, can I watch this movie?” She holds out 50 First Dates. Mentally, I review the flick. I remember it being a cute and quirky film about how much Adam Sandler’s character loved Drew Barrymore’s character. I saw no issue. I should have known better…
“Sure baby. You’ll have to turn it off when I call you to the table for dinner though…” Famous last words. Dinner is served and true to her word the movie is turned off. The dishes are cleared and I snuggle up with my Things (I like to refer to them as Thing 1, Thing 2 and Thing 3 – I feel in this world of stolen identities, if you need to know their names, chances are you are close enough to have met them). Where was I? Oh yes, on the couch, nestled comfy-like with three kids sprawled on me with a blanket.
Precisely then is when IT occurs. Adam Sandler happens! A litany of asshole, shit, ass and more assholes fly at us. I pray they don’t notice. No one says a peep. Not even a giggle, as they know these to be grown-up words – words that are not totally off-limits, but ones that you have to “grow up” to merely utter. And then…the mother of all dreaded things happens.
I don’t recall who gave whom the finger, but someone sure as hell did. I gasp. WTF is this movie rated? One small sad detail I neglected to look at when allowing this feature to air on Fay TV. Epic Parenting Fail. The next thing I know, my sweet, sweet son looks up at me, gives me the finger and asks, “Mommy, what does THIS mean?!?”
“It means grown up things that I can’t tell you about.” Never mind that I already fast-forwarded through a sex scene with similar explanations. He pushes on, “Really Mommy…you tell me!”
That’s when my moment of brilliance strikes. I call upon one of the most revered people in our home, The Granny, to save my behind. “That is something bad. Something so monumentally horrible that if seen, Granny will never come here to visit again. Something so bad that if Mommy did it, Granny would spank me! Forget about what happens to little boys & girls who use that finger like that…If Granny would spank me, a grown-up – what-oh-what would she do to you?”
This accomplishes what no dancing around the subject I could tap out would ever do. My son jerks his fingers into a fist and shoves it under the blanket. His wide eyes beseech me and he inquires, “Never?” My only answer is, “Nope. She’d NEVER come visit.”
It seems after all these years, my mother, inadvertently; is still capable of striking fear in the hearts of children. Granted, this time she wasn’t screaming and brandishing a pancake turner (having long since broken the wooden spoons on my brothers’ asses). But stone cold fear, none-the-less. That night as I silently said my prayers, I thanked God for my mother, whom even without knowing it, continues to save my sorry hide after all these years… So, thanks Mom! And to the rest of you – I pose in my middle flippant salute.
We own quite a collection of movies. My precocious seven-year-old is getting bored with animated kid’s movies and wants to progress into real movies…you know the kind with actresses and actors. Innocently, she sidled into the kitchen while I was making dinner.
“Mommy, can I watch this movie?” She holds out 50 First Dates. Mentally, I review the flick. I remember it being a cute and quirky film about how much Adam Sandler’s character loved Drew Barrymore’s character. I saw no issue. I should have known better…
“Sure baby. You’ll have to turn it off when I call you to the table for dinner though…” Famous last words. Dinner is served and true to her word the movie is turned off. The dishes are cleared and I snuggle up with my Things (I like to refer to them as Thing 1, Thing 2 and Thing 3 – I feel in this world of stolen identities, if you need to know their names, chances are you are close enough to have met them). Where was I? Oh yes, on the couch, nestled comfy-like with three kids sprawled on me with a blanket.
Precisely then is when IT occurs. Adam Sandler happens! A litany of asshole, shit, ass and more assholes fly at us. I pray they don’t notice. No one says a peep. Not even a giggle, as they know these to be grown-up words – words that are not totally off-limits, but ones that you have to “grow up” to merely utter. And then…the mother of all dreaded things happens.
I don’t recall who gave whom the finger, but someone sure as hell did. I gasp. WTF is this movie rated? One small sad detail I neglected to look at when allowing this feature to air on Fay TV. Epic Parenting Fail. The next thing I know, my sweet, sweet son looks up at me, gives me the finger and asks, “Mommy, what does THIS mean?!?”
“It means grown up things that I can’t tell you about.” Never mind that I already fast-forwarded through a sex scene with similar explanations. He pushes on, “Really Mommy…you tell me!”
That’s when my moment of brilliance strikes. I call upon one of the most revered people in our home, The Granny, to save my behind. “That is something bad. Something so monumentally horrible that if seen, Granny will never come here to visit again. Something so bad that if Mommy did it, Granny would spank me! Forget about what happens to little boys & girls who use that finger like that…If Granny would spank me, a grown-up – what-oh-what would she do to you?”
This accomplishes what no dancing around the subject I could tap out would ever do. My son jerks his fingers into a fist and shoves it under the blanket. His wide eyes beseech me and he inquires, “Never?” My only answer is, “Nope. She’d NEVER come visit.”
It seems after all these years, my mother, inadvertently; is still capable of striking fear in the hearts of children. Granted, this time she wasn’t screaming and brandishing a pancake turner (having long since broken the wooden spoons on my brothers’ asses). But stone cold fear, none-the-less. That night as I silently said my prayers, I thanked God for my mother, whom even without knowing it, continues to save my sorry hide after all these years… So, thanks Mom! And to the rest of you – I pose in my middle flippant salute.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Just Bust A Move
Every now and then, our living room gets transformed into Studio 54. I DJ while my children dance around like the gawky white kids they are. [They obviously did not inherit their father’s dancing abilities, or did they? As, I’m told it was strongly suggested to his mother that she enroll her son in a professional dance school. Oh, how different my life would be if I were married to K-Fed. I digress…] Tonight was no exception. As the likes of One Republic, Bruno Mars and Maroon 5 pumped out rhythmic beats, these kids got down like James Brown. Or Steve Martin – you take your pick.
Halfway through a song my oldest piped up, “Mommy! You and Daddy need to dance! Dance I say!”
I made a feeble excuse, “Sure. Just as soon as this song ends. I can change the Pandora station to something more suitable and appropriate for Daddy and I to dance to.” In parental terms, this means: I need to put on something slower so not as to blow out my hip and pull numerous muscles. The song ended, and I quickly snatched up my iPhone to change Pandora’s Modern Male Station to my Pandora Motown Station.
Oh. My. God. What are the chances that of all the Motown Songs out there that Pandora should choose to pick “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gayeat this precise moment? I look at my husband. He looks at me. We meet up and bust out laughing over the kiddies shouting, “Dance, Mommy – Dance, Daddy!” We start slow dancing. This dance had none of the showmanship our children have come to love seeing. There were no dips, no twists, no spins. There was no intricate hand or foot movement as we rotated the dance floor. Instead, there was an inappropriate amount of hip grinding, neck kissing and whispered double entendres.
The freaks I gave birth to decided that this would be a good time to make a dance circle around us. They began chanting, “Love it! Kiss her! Love it! Kiss her!” Their father was happy to oblige. He kissed me, alright. I think I blushed. Cheers and clapping erupted in our living room. For a brief moment, I was thankful that I’ve shown my children what a happy loving married couple looks like – and hope they hold onto these memories that we never shy away from…and then I realized, well – if they hold onto those memories, quite possibly in about 15 years they will put two and two together and understand why they were rushed through their bath time routines and put to bed early tonight.
Shit. I owe the Therapy Jar five more dollars.
Halfway through a song my oldest piped up, “Mommy! You and Daddy need to dance! Dance I say!”
I made a feeble excuse, “Sure. Just as soon as this song ends. I can change the Pandora station to something more suitable and appropriate for Daddy and I to dance to.” In parental terms, this means: I need to put on something slower so not as to blow out my hip and pull numerous muscles. The song ended, and I quickly snatched up my iPhone to change Pandora’s Modern Male Station to my Pandora Motown Station.
Oh. My. God. What are the chances that of all the Motown Songs out there that Pandora should choose to pick “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gayeat this precise moment? I look at my husband. He looks at me. We meet up and bust out laughing over the kiddies shouting, “Dance, Mommy – Dance, Daddy!” We start slow dancing. This dance had none of the showmanship our children have come to love seeing. There were no dips, no twists, no spins. There was no intricate hand or foot movement as we rotated the dance floor. Instead, there was an inappropriate amount of hip grinding, neck kissing and whispered double entendres.
The freaks I gave birth to decided that this would be a good time to make a dance circle around us. They began chanting, “Love it! Kiss her! Love it! Kiss her!” Their father was happy to oblige. He kissed me, alright. I think I blushed. Cheers and clapping erupted in our living room. For a brief moment, I was thankful that I’ve shown my children what a happy loving married couple looks like – and hope they hold onto these memories that we never shy away from…and then I realized, well – if they hold onto those memories, quite possibly in about 15 years they will put two and two together and understand why they were rushed through their bath time routines and put to bed early tonight.
Shit. I owe the Therapy Jar five more dollars.
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