Alrighty you crazy with a capital C Mom's out there ... Get the hellz bellz off Pinterest. Seriously. Close out the page and step away from your computer. You're giving me a complex as if I don't have enough "all the other Moms are crafty" guilt. Us ladies are supposed to look out for one another and there you are making the rest of us look bad with your quadruple layered Voodoo inspired King Cake with it's own New Orleans jazz band accompaniment for Mardi Gras. Nobody likes a Show-Off. It's not attractive.
I mean look ... I'm just going to put it out there and say it to those Pinterest addicts out there. Don't give yourself a pat on the back for your latest dryer lint / Zombie Apocalypse Halloween decorations. You. Are. Cheating. Yeah I said it. Cheating. You overachieving hounds are supposed to wait like the rest of us frazzled mothers to see what their child brings home from school and just hang it somewhere in your home for that month's holiday decorations. That's what teachers are for! To create all those knick-knack-brick-bracks that are doomed to hang on our fridges for eternity. Hello?!! Isn't that why teachers make the big bucks? For cotton ball snowmen, Valentine envelope holders, marsh mellow Easter bunnies, construction paper Jack-o-lanterns and popsicle stick Christmas trees with glue that sticks itself to every other object in your child's book bag. Why would you dare try to out-do these tired but true, timeless yet messy trinkets of love?
It's understandable, you wanting to showcase the latest Martha Stewart icing piping apparatus your Great Aunt Millie sent you on the 16th day of Hanukkah but let us get real. Surely you are up to your eyeballs with laundry, 10 day old leftover banana mush from one of the twins' lunchbox or overdue library book fines to deal with. Is it really necessary to make individual mod podge birthday invitations for your 2 year old? Are you in dire need of validation? Well put down the Hobby Lobby credit card and give me your phone number. If you pinky swear to quit being a overzealous Pinterest monster I'll call you with a daily dose of validation. Your house is spotless, dinner is perfection, children are geniuses, husband is dreamy, you look like you just stepped out of high school, ass looks amazing, boobs are top notch.
There. Enough validation for you? Not stop with the hand pressed wrapping paper. Hallmark has elves for that.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
40 is just 40
For those of you who do not have my birthday noted on your calendar (which you all should) I turned 40 this year. I had been dreading this day for years and for months leading up to it I did all the cliché things like posting those silly 40 ism's from Pinterest onto my Facebook page .... "You're only as old as you feel"... Really? Well, I feel like I'm 80. "40 and Fabulous" ... Who am I, Carrie Bradshaw? "40 is Vintage" ... That actually does not make me feel any better. And the worst ... "40 is the new 20". Now that is just a straight up lie.
Maybe I am speaking for myself but let me just say that 40 is not the "new" 20. It is most definitely, positively, without a doubt in this whole wide world NOT the new 20 and I know this because I remember 20 and it was awesome. The 20 Sally didn't have stretch marks, wrinkles, cellulite, Old Man River grey hair, an uncanny gift of only purchasing Mom jeans, a never ending pile of dirty clothes, sunspots, grandma bathing suits, a ridiculous amount of Thirty-One bags, Dollar Store sunglasses and Post It Notes all over the damn place because she cannot remember squat. 20 Sally wasn't worried about hang-overs, calories, running out of milk and toilet paper, the appropriate length of her dress, trying and failing to act like a sensible adult, is there a correct fruit to protein ratio in her child's lunchbox, not peeing on herself if she laughs too hard, Mom boobs, if her children become convicts and blame her, and not picking the correct career path and working until I'm 90 because of it.
No in my little 40 year old world, 40 is just straight up 40. Looking back I don't even know if I could handle being 20 again and if my liver and my flimsy entry card into heaven would still be valid. Being 20 takes up a lot of time and effort that frankly I no longer possess the patience for. Casually strolling through shopping malls to find the perfect outfit ... not going to happen. Baking for hours in the sun coated in suntan oil ... eewww. Starting off and ending the night with Kamikaze shots ... just shoot me. Sleeping until noon ... was it just a dream? Eating junk food day and night and not gaining a pound ... yeah that didn't happen. Spending more than 5 minutes on my hair and makeup total ... I'm lucky if I even care to dry it. Staying out past 10 on a weeknight ... and miss my TV shows? That's crazy talk.
I am convinced that men or women trying to forget they too are 40 write those stupid little 40 is just the bestest ever nonsense sayings. Maybe they spent their 20th birthday in prison making license plates with Big Susie and Tank, getting out just in time to celebrate their 40th as a free man/woman. I bet the first purchase they made was that weird doctors office poster with the cat seconds from plummeting from a tree with "Hang in There" across the top. Hang in there? That's all you've got?
40 is just 40. I don't have time to be 20 again anyway. Who will feed the kids and buy toilet paper?
Maybe I am speaking for myself but let me just say that 40 is not the "new" 20. It is most definitely, positively, without a doubt in this whole wide world NOT the new 20 and I know this because I remember 20 and it was awesome. The 20 Sally didn't have stretch marks, wrinkles, cellulite, Old Man River grey hair, an uncanny gift of only purchasing Mom jeans, a never ending pile of dirty clothes, sunspots, grandma bathing suits, a ridiculous amount of Thirty-One bags, Dollar Store sunglasses and Post It Notes all over the damn place because she cannot remember squat. 20 Sally wasn't worried about hang-overs, calories, running out of milk and toilet paper, the appropriate length of her dress, trying and failing to act like a sensible adult, is there a correct fruit to protein ratio in her child's lunchbox, not peeing on herself if she laughs too hard, Mom boobs, if her children become convicts and blame her, and not picking the correct career path and working until I'm 90 because of it.
No in my little 40 year old world, 40 is just straight up 40. Looking back I don't even know if I could handle being 20 again and if my liver and my flimsy entry card into heaven would still be valid. Being 20 takes up a lot of time and effort that frankly I no longer possess the patience for. Casually strolling through shopping malls to find the perfect outfit ... not going to happen. Baking for hours in the sun coated in suntan oil ... eewww. Starting off and ending the night with Kamikaze shots ... just shoot me. Sleeping until noon ... was it just a dream? Eating junk food day and night and not gaining a pound ... yeah that didn't happen. Spending more than 5 minutes on my hair and makeup total ... I'm lucky if I even care to dry it. Staying out past 10 on a weeknight ... and miss my TV shows? That's crazy talk.
I am convinced that men or women trying to forget they too are 40 write those stupid little 40 is just the bestest ever nonsense sayings. Maybe they spent their 20th birthday in prison making license plates with Big Susie and Tank, getting out just in time to celebrate their 40th as a free man/woman. I bet the first purchase they made was that weird doctors office poster with the cat seconds from plummeting from a tree with "Hang in There" across the top. Hang in there? That's all you've got?
40 is just 40. I don't have time to be 20 again anyway. Who will feed the kids and buy toilet paper?
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
It's Me Against The Z
I have a long standing love/hate relationship with my zipper. While most of the time she and I are on pretty good terms, this weekend however the bitch let me down. Big Time. I can sum up my disgust and crushing embarrassment in just a few words.
navy snow pants - not navy underthings - lots of people - zipper in the starting position
You get my drift; or more appropriately I should say "draft"and it wasn't the Friday night local bar special either.
After racking my brain on how Zelda could be so cruel I am beginning to think that possibly she feels I don't appreciate her as much as I should. Though it pains me to admit it the past couple of decades (pictures don't lie) I have been neglectful, veering towards the dreaded "Mom jeans/elastic waistband" section for my pant purchases. And yes there have been one or two thousand times when I have enlisted the help of an extremely over sized top that stretched well below the zipper line therefore not allowing Zelda to showcase her incredible talent. Keeping the bulge at bay.
Hurt feelings have got to be placed on a back burner before something else truly dreadful happens to me. Do I sound insensitive? Possibly unappreciative of Zelda the Zipper's feelings while daily I tug and pray and cry and hop and pinch and curse at her reluctance to "just come on and inch up a little BIT FURTHER, OH MY GOD WHY WON'T YOU JUST ZIP UP?!!!" I mean damn. It's her freaking job is it not? prima donna
Today I found myself in the craft aisle checking out the buttons and wondering if that is a route I would consider going down if another "Hello world, I'm Sally's underthings" episode happens again. I'm so over elastic and not sure my self worth and liver can handle my daughter pointing out my stretchy pants clinging on for dear life to my squishy middle. It's like a Fatty-Boom-Baladdy drinking game. Someone says Mommy is squishy - Mommy wants to deplete the ABC Store stockroom.
But for now I shall just continue on my zipper journey and will try to incorporate a few soothing words of encouragement for my girl Zelda. Hang in there Zelda, that's a girl, just a little bit further, I promise to not eat lunch today, you're doing so great, keep-a-comin', just a little - bit - more ... Yes!
A few sweet words and a safety pin. You can never be too careful.
navy snow pants - not navy underthings - lots of people - zipper in the starting position
You get my drift; or more appropriately I should say "draft"and it wasn't the Friday night local bar special either.
After racking my brain on how Zelda could be so cruel I am beginning to think that possibly she feels I don't appreciate her as much as I should. Though it pains me to admit it the past couple of decades (pictures don't lie) I have been neglectful, veering towards the dreaded "Mom jeans/elastic waistband" section for my pant purchases. And yes there have been one or two thousand times when I have enlisted the help of an extremely over sized top that stretched well below the zipper line therefore not allowing Zelda to showcase her incredible talent. Keeping the bulge at bay.
Hurt feelings have got to be placed on a back burner before something else truly dreadful happens to me. Do I sound insensitive? Possibly unappreciative of Zelda the Zipper's feelings while daily I tug and pray and cry and hop and pinch and curse at her reluctance to "just come on and inch up a little BIT FURTHER, OH MY GOD WHY WON'T YOU JUST ZIP UP?!!!" I mean damn. It's her freaking job is it not? prima donna
Today I found myself in the craft aisle checking out the buttons and wondering if that is a route I would consider going down if another "Hello world, I'm Sally's underthings" episode happens again. I'm so over elastic and not sure my self worth and liver can handle my daughter pointing out my stretchy pants clinging on for dear life to my squishy middle. It's like a Fatty-Boom-Baladdy drinking game. Someone says Mommy is squishy - Mommy wants to deplete the ABC Store stockroom.
But for now I shall just continue on my zipper journey and will try to incorporate a few soothing words of encouragement for my girl Zelda. Hang in there Zelda, that's a girl, just a little bit further, I promise to not eat lunch today, you're doing so great, keep-a-comin', just a little - bit - more ... Yes!
A few sweet words and a safety pin. You can never be too careful.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Dust And The Rest Of Us
Over a month ago I started a new job close to home, weekends free and off at 3 pm so I can pick up the kids from school. All good good good. See I pray for things that I really truly want and I mean some serious Please o Please o PLEASE kind of praying, and 9 times out of 10 things seem to turn out in my favor. Apprecish God.
Anywho. So I have the job, mornings are hellish but we're making it and the days are going well, wrapping up at 3 then out the door for the kids and we beat the school buses home. Life is good and I'm home before 4:00 and just thrilled with having this extra time in the afternoons, that is until I walk into my dungeon of dust. Oh Dear Heavens. Evidently I have been spared for the past 5 years of the dusty den that is my home since I've been arriving in the evenings after the sun has graciously lowered enough to where I wasn't greeted with a lazer beam of creepy particles. We aren't dirtballs and but neither are we neat freaks but nothing justifies the sheen of fluff hanging out on all our surfaces! It's all I can think about now when I climb the stairs of our little birdhouse and I fear the kids might get a contact high off the Pledge fumes.
And speaking of being a dirtball, I am in constant fear of dying and having someone come into our house and deal with my "stacks" of stuff without any explanation or understanding of my methods of organized chaos. What someone may see as an old discarded cross stitch pattern is actually a present for my sister on her graduation from college 10 years ago. Last I heard NC State was still around and she did graduate so I feel it is still relevant and I like to unearth that project from time to time in the hopes of jump-starting my efforts. The box in the corner? Well I am in the process of gathering all of the children's school work so it can be filed away in that Keepsake box you'll find stashed in my closet. And yes I do have pictures sticking out from and taped to and clipped on every available wall space but I'm waiting to find the perfect frame and if they are tucked away in an album I'll forget what size I need. The scattered baby teeth in my jewelry box? I'm looking for the perfect tin to keep them safe. The stack by the computer? It needs to be shredded but it's so time consuming. Yes there are clothes on the floor and toothpaste on the door frame, dishes in the sink, half folded baskets of laundry, Halloween candy wrappers inside Annie's sheets, scattered band-aids, half eaten breakfast that the cat is licking and someone's forgotten homework. But look, it was a rough morning.
How can I make sure that there will be an understanding soul that will walk into my home, take one look and say "Looks like someone had to go stinky 3 minutes before leaving for school, Mommy had to resort to popcorn for breakfast, Annie pulled a sassy mouth diva, Sally on her 3rd day of Trey working the night shift and she got zero sleep because the cat keeps eating the toothpaste and zinging around the house all night" instead of the dreaded "Looks like another case of a lazy, hoarder, maniac mother with horrible parenting skills".
Maybe on the really bad mornings I should leave a quick note explaining the nuclear meltdown that is my home. Hopefully they will come anytime after 6:00pm and the dust will just blend on in.
Anywho. So I have the job, mornings are hellish but we're making it and the days are going well, wrapping up at 3 then out the door for the kids and we beat the school buses home. Life is good and I'm home before 4:00 and just thrilled with having this extra time in the afternoons, that is until I walk into my dungeon of dust. Oh Dear Heavens. Evidently I have been spared for the past 5 years of the dusty den that is my home since I've been arriving in the evenings after the sun has graciously lowered enough to where I wasn't greeted with a lazer beam of creepy particles. We aren't dirtballs and but neither are we neat freaks but nothing justifies the sheen of fluff hanging out on all our surfaces! It's all I can think about now when I climb the stairs of our little birdhouse and I fear the kids might get a contact high off the Pledge fumes.
And speaking of being a dirtball, I am in constant fear of dying and having someone come into our house and deal with my "stacks" of stuff without any explanation or understanding of my methods of organized chaos. What someone may see as an old discarded cross stitch pattern is actually a present for my sister on her graduation from college 10 years ago. Last I heard NC State was still around and she did graduate so I feel it is still relevant and I like to unearth that project from time to time in the hopes of jump-starting my efforts. The box in the corner? Well I am in the process of gathering all of the children's school work so it can be filed away in that Keepsake box you'll find stashed in my closet. And yes I do have pictures sticking out from and taped to and clipped on every available wall space but I'm waiting to find the perfect frame and if they are tucked away in an album I'll forget what size I need. The scattered baby teeth in my jewelry box? I'm looking for the perfect tin to keep them safe. The stack by the computer? It needs to be shredded but it's so time consuming. Yes there are clothes on the floor and toothpaste on the door frame, dishes in the sink, half folded baskets of laundry, Halloween candy wrappers inside Annie's sheets, scattered band-aids, half eaten breakfast that the cat is licking and someone's forgotten homework. But look, it was a rough morning.
How can I make sure that there will be an understanding soul that will walk into my home, take one look and say "Looks like someone had to go stinky 3 minutes before leaving for school, Mommy had to resort to popcorn for breakfast, Annie pulled a sassy mouth diva, Sally on her 3rd day of Trey working the night shift and she got zero sleep because the cat keeps eating the toothpaste and zinging around the house all night" instead of the dreaded "Looks like another case of a lazy, hoarder, maniac mother with horrible parenting skills".
Maybe on the really bad mornings I should leave a quick note explaining the nuclear meltdown that is my home. Hopefully they will come anytime after 6:00pm and the dust will just blend on in.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
New Mom on Aisle 4
I
could be a better Mom, it's true. If I really put just a little extra
umpf in the pot I could really be something super extra megga
stupendous. The question is though do I really want to be? Could I go
full throttle into Mother Coolness; put myself out there and wear the crown for The Most Fantastical Mother Like Ever In The Whole Wide Earth?
Whew, I'm all tuckered out just thinking about it.
Lately I have been making a list of things I should, need, could, but ultimately probably will not start doing with the kids and it just keeps on growing. Oh I take the kids around town and we have our little walk-abouts, ride bikes, beach days, play outside .... All the regular stuff everyone does but nothing really "memory making/above and beyond the norm" worthy. Maybe I just wasn't born with the perfect amount of Best Mom Ever juice. Could it be possible that I missed the How to be stellar parents everyone will envy checklist when my husband and I met with our doctor to discuss preparing for children?
Dear Future Parents,
If you intend to do the following with your children then you are the perfect candidates to become parents. If none of this appeals to you then go back to the bar.
One reason why I am so terrible is that I still expect the kids to remain on a tight school year bedtime schedule which they detest. In all fairness to me even though school isn't in session my job still is and our exciting day begins with preparation for summer camp with a thrilling game of force feeding my kids, I don't want to wear that bathing suit today, packing lunches and sunscreen applications before we hit the door. In case you didn't already know, dousing your kid at 7 am in sunscreen is a whole new level of hell. Think I'm joking? You try it with your litter who didn't get enough sleep because you just had to have a test run of "Mommy is the best!" and allow the jungle cats another hour of trampoline time, only for it to blow up in your face. Everything is great until it isn't and then you are totally stuck in meltdown prison.
Another reason for my possible Mom trade-in is for the simple fact that I don't do whine very well. Whining to me is almost like a bite from a vampire. Human one second/Vamp the next. One minute you are walking down the road holding your little angel boo's hand thinking this is the best day ever and the next someone is whining about who in the hell knows and I turn into a complete freak of nature. That shrill of non-conforming attitude works it's way into my skin and it gets ugly. Pronto. When I probably should be more comforting when Whiner #1 gets a poke in the eyeball all I can think is I told you to not play around in the store like 5,000 times and this what happens when you don't listen to your mother! Stubbed toe: This would not happen if someone would have gotten in the freaking bed instead of in my face whining about it still being light outside during bedtime! During this EVERY SINGLE summer night whine-ument of "how can you ask me to sleep when the sun isn't?" I think to myself that if we ever were to move to Alaska that I would undoubtedly jump off a cliff. No run. Run off a damn cliff.
To double double make sure that the kids and I make it with slightly good mental health I pray each night that they will only remember the fun stuff and not all of my yelling. It's my new Mantra. Please God let the kids grow up reasonably normal and slightly kooky, only remembering that I was totally fantastic and blame their dad for any issues they have in their child rearing and leave me out of it. Amen
Whew, I'm all tuckered out just thinking about it.
Lately I have been making a list of things I should, need, could, but ultimately probably will not start doing with the kids and it just keeps on growing. Oh I take the kids around town and we have our little walk-abouts, ride bikes, beach days, play outside .... All the regular stuff everyone does but nothing really "memory making/above and beyond the norm" worthy. Maybe I just wasn't born with the perfect amount of Best Mom Ever juice. Could it be possible that I missed the How to be stellar parents everyone will envy checklist when my husband and I met with our doctor to discuss preparing for children?
Dear Future Parents,
If you intend to do the following with your children then you are the perfect candidates to become parents. If none of this appeals to you then go back to the bar.
- Only talk in the softest nicest Mommyish tones.
- Have the children gather sticks to whittle into dolls and utensils while camping in a forest you stopped to rest your weary feet while hitchhiking to Canada for extra credit in your child's History class.
- Make sure you own a cow for milk, goat for cheese and chicken for eggs. Only the freshest of the fresh for your family, even if you live in a condo. Just tie the livestock up to the lamp post by the curb.
- Sing a good morning wake up song while your husband plays the spoons, encouraging the wee ones to join you in a little Do-Re-Me like the Von Trapp Family.
- Any other ridiculous time consuming unbelievably over-the-top thing that only people who are insane and have nothing else to do conjure up to make the rest of the Mom population feel like a loser.
One reason why I am so terrible is that I still expect the kids to remain on a tight school year bedtime schedule which they detest. In all fairness to me even though school isn't in session my job still is and our exciting day begins with preparation for summer camp with a thrilling game of force feeding my kids, I don't want to wear that bathing suit today, packing lunches and sunscreen applications before we hit the door. In case you didn't already know, dousing your kid at 7 am in sunscreen is a whole new level of hell. Think I'm joking? You try it with your litter who didn't get enough sleep because you just had to have a test run of "Mommy is the best!" and allow the jungle cats another hour of trampoline time, only for it to blow up in your face. Everything is great until it isn't and then you are totally stuck in meltdown prison.
Another reason for my possible Mom trade-in is for the simple fact that I don't do whine very well. Whining to me is almost like a bite from a vampire. Human one second/Vamp the next. One minute you are walking down the road holding your little angel boo's hand thinking this is the best day ever and the next someone is whining about who in the hell knows and I turn into a complete freak of nature. That shrill of non-conforming attitude works it's way into my skin and it gets ugly. Pronto. When I probably should be more comforting when Whiner #1 gets a poke in the eyeball all I can think is I told you to not play around in the store like 5,000 times and this what happens when you don't listen to your mother! Stubbed toe: This would not happen if someone would have gotten in the freaking bed instead of in my face whining about it still being light outside during bedtime! During this EVERY SINGLE summer night whine-ument of "how can you ask me to sleep when the sun isn't?" I think to myself that if we ever were to move to Alaska that I would undoubtedly jump off a cliff. No run. Run off a damn cliff.
To double double make sure that the kids and I make it with slightly good mental health I pray each night that they will only remember the fun stuff and not all of my yelling. It's my new Mantra. Please God let the kids grow up reasonably normal and slightly kooky, only remembering that I was totally fantastic and blame their dad for any issues they have in their child rearing and leave me out of it. Amen
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wrinkle Smrinkle
My bad mood started with a knee wrinkle.
Ok, that's not entirely true but it's a good place to start. I have a brand spankin' new knee wrinkle and I am pissed. No matter what anyone says I know for a fact that it is all God's doing even if he doesn't cop to it and he and I will be having a little tête-à-tête about this soon. Of course I understand that in his eyes these wrinkle episodes may seem like an appropriate punishment for my lack of patience with my children and husband, but I beg to differ. A new wrinkle this close to my 20th high school reunion is hitting waaayy below the belt and I would expect a more civilized "Get your act together Sister" warning from the man upstairs. Guess no one takes into account that my Mommy Freak-Outs were preceded by 6 hours of Annie whining, countless times of telling Carl to leave Annie alone and my husband just walking around completely ignoring the Armageddon that is our lives. Do I not deserve some medal for dealing with this? It's like 1,000 times of asking the kids to Please pick up their toys and Please brush teeth because we are running late and Please to my husband to quit sneaking off somewhere I can't find him and boss him around. You know sometimes a girl just snaps and then it's like "For the love of GOD would you PLEASE help me do ...." and you know what happens once you say God! All kinds of trouble. His freaking beeper goes off and you get caught screaming in a not very nice fashion and all crazy eyed. Using all your bad words and threatening to divorce your husband before 8 am? BAM you have another wrinkle and BAM you stub your toe and BAM you walk out of the house with your zipper down wearing your bright purple "in an emergency/back of the drawer" undies. Fella doesn't play around. This doesn't happen to you?
Well .... aren't you something special.
I am not an easy going Mommy, never have been and I don't foresee me becoming one in the near future. So many nights I have stayed awake just thinking of ways I could have and should have handled a situation better, telling myself that next time I will do things differently. My issues are no more unusual than what any other parent deals with on a daily basis (well I hope not or my kids are worse than I thought) and they aren't bad kids; unfortunately they are dealing with a mother who tends to go a little bat shit crazy sometimes. That's the breaks kids. Sorry
Another possible reason for my dark mood cloud is that it's bathing suit season again which is another doozer towards my self image. Nothing makes you want to jump off a freaking bridge more than standing in front of an unforgiving mirror with bright ass lights glaring down on you, sweating like a freak, praying, crying and swearing while you try and shove your "womanly body" into something a devil of a man who hates women designed. Have no idea what I'm talking about? This never happens to you? Go suck an egg.
So there I stand in the bathing suit section that offers suits that are "supposed" to suck in all your squishes and heck if they aren't all the same as the other skinny people suits across the aisle, but are just $40.00 bucks more. I grab several styles, telling myself that THIS will be the year I find something un-grannyish that will showcase my "curves" all the boys are supposed to love (HA) and I will be happy and everything will be rainbows and unicorns and joyous, I will myself to try them on. In route to the dressing rooms/torture chamber I call up to God and apologize for disturbing him during his Margarita hour (my God likes his on the rocks with salt like me) but to pretty pretty please with sugar on top have some mercy on me. Instead it ends in another session of me leaving them all in the dressing room in total disarray and spending the rest of my bathing suit-less drive home threatening to begin a bathing suit line as soon as I invent a society-acceptable shock collar for my kids. Hey, a girl can dream.
So for now the plan is to be on my very bestest behavior and not eat a thing until the end of June lest I act up again and wind up with a wrinkle right in between my eyes. One of two things are going to happen before then. #1- I will wear the bathing suit I finally got over my thighs to my high school reunion with my shiny new knee wrinkle OR #2 - I'll be skipping that reunion and instead taking a case of beer with me to the dressing room to sneer at all the skinny girls that walk by. Who wants to come with?
Ok, that's not entirely true but it's a good place to start. I have a brand spankin' new knee wrinkle and I am pissed. No matter what anyone says I know for a fact that it is all God's doing even if he doesn't cop to it and he and I will be having a little tête-à-tête about this soon. Of course I understand that in his eyes these wrinkle episodes may seem like an appropriate punishment for my lack of patience with my children and husband, but I beg to differ. A new wrinkle this close to my 20th high school reunion is hitting waaayy below the belt and I would expect a more civilized "Get your act together Sister" warning from the man upstairs. Guess no one takes into account that my Mommy Freak-Outs were preceded by 6 hours of Annie whining, countless times of telling Carl to leave Annie alone and my husband just walking around completely ignoring the Armageddon that is our lives. Do I not deserve some medal for dealing with this? It's like 1,000 times of asking the kids to Please pick up their toys and Please brush teeth because we are running late and Please to my husband to quit sneaking off somewhere I can't find him and boss him around. You know sometimes a girl just snaps and then it's like "For the love of GOD would you PLEASE help me do ...." and you know what happens once you say God! All kinds of trouble. His freaking beeper goes off and you get caught screaming in a not very nice fashion and all crazy eyed. Using all your bad words and threatening to divorce your husband before 8 am? BAM you have another wrinkle and BAM you stub your toe and BAM you walk out of the house with your zipper down wearing your bright purple "in an emergency/back of the drawer" undies. Fella doesn't play around. This doesn't happen to you?
Well .... aren't you something special.
I am not an easy going Mommy, never have been and I don't foresee me becoming one in the near future. So many nights I have stayed awake just thinking of ways I could have and should have handled a situation better, telling myself that next time I will do things differently. My issues are no more unusual than what any other parent deals with on a daily basis (well I hope not or my kids are worse than I thought) and they aren't bad kids; unfortunately they are dealing with a mother who tends to go a little bat shit crazy sometimes. That's the breaks kids. Sorry
Another possible reason for my dark mood cloud is that it's bathing suit season again which is another doozer towards my self image. Nothing makes you want to jump off a freaking bridge more than standing in front of an unforgiving mirror with bright ass lights glaring down on you, sweating like a freak, praying, crying and swearing while you try and shove your "womanly body" into something a devil of a man who hates women designed. Have no idea what I'm talking about? This never happens to you? Go suck an egg.
So there I stand in the bathing suit section that offers suits that are "supposed" to suck in all your squishes and heck if they aren't all the same as the other skinny people suits across the aisle, but are just $40.00 bucks more. I grab several styles, telling myself that THIS will be the year I find something un-grannyish that will showcase my "curves" all the boys are supposed to love (HA) and I will be happy and everything will be rainbows and unicorns and joyous, I will myself to try them on. In route to the dressing rooms/torture chamber I call up to God and apologize for disturbing him during his Margarita hour (my God likes his on the rocks with salt like me) but to pretty pretty please with sugar on top have some mercy on me. Instead it ends in another session of me leaving them all in the dressing room in total disarray and spending the rest of my bathing suit-less drive home threatening to begin a bathing suit line as soon as I invent a society-acceptable shock collar for my kids. Hey, a girl can dream.
So for now the plan is to be on my very bestest behavior and not eat a thing until the end of June lest I act up again and wind up with a wrinkle right in between my eyes. One of two things are going to happen before then. #1- I will wear the bathing suit I finally got over my thighs to my high school reunion with my shiny new knee wrinkle OR #2 - I'll be skipping that reunion and instead taking a case of beer with me to the dressing room to sneer at all the skinny girls that walk by. Who wants to come with?
Friday, May 11, 2012
As the clock ticks
In less than 24 hours I will be turning 38 and I still have no idea what I am doing. I had always thought that with age you become more secure in your being, find your purpose in life and grow in the confidence that you have a plan-a goal and are slowly and deliberately moving towards that. Umm, nope. Not the case here. All the magazines and books say that as women grow older they learn to embrace their flaws, have a renewed understanding of others, begin to love and appreciate their bodies no matter what the size or shape and become one with the universe. Nope, not happening. My purpose in life? You mean other than folding laundry that no one else can see - No clue. Grow in the confidence that I have a plan? Other than planning to NOT have tacos 6 times a week I don't have one. Embrace my flaws? You've got to be kidding. Appreciate my post baby, carb loving body? Yeah right. Become one with the universe? Is that even possible? The start of my 38th year is a looking a little sketchy.
Honestly I feel pretty badly for my kids for the simple fact that I am totally winging this "grown-up" thing and if they make it out of my craziness without being a total menace to society that will be a blessing. Now there are moments when I can look at myself in the mirror and say "Sally girl - you're doing all right"; a declaration that typically comes after a few cocktails, but that's not the point. The point is that 98.7% of the time I am just going through the motions praying that if I pretend to be a reasonably decent person, walk and talk like I have some understanding of how to parent and make arrangements for the family to have clean underwear then I may just make it out of my 38th year alive.
While I have never considered myself to be a "grown-up" since in my world that title still belongs to my parents and everyone else around me; it seems to me that all of my friends have their act together and are clipping along quite nicely. What in the heck is my deal? In my early teenage years I remember thinking that living to be in your 30's was right up there with Grandma Moses and surely I would never live long enough to be thirty-anything. Could it be that my brain stopped developing back then and all of the important goodies I should've been storing in my noggin for the "grown-up years" got lost in the shuffle of does my butt look big in this and I wonder if so-n-so will be out tonight? There is rarely a time when my parents are unable to answer any question I may have or have a stockpile of helpful (though sometimes unsolicited) advise. Not much gets past them and I worry about my ability to offer the same nuggets of important life knowledge to my little family. Need something hemmed, questions about health care, automotive care, politics, bee-sting relief, how to make a casserole, religion, cultures, the economy, gardening tips, the universe ... Check, Check, Check. My grown-ups know it all! Why don't I know these things? What if I never will! GASP!
Could it be that there is a What should already be embedded into your brain by the time you reach 38 years old, book floating around out there that I just haven't found? (You better believe I have been looking) Maybe an app I'm not aware of because I have an iPhone and it is only offered to Droid users? That would be my freaking luck. Oh Happy Birthday to me. Hopefully one day I will be fortunate enough I have a better understanding of the world and what in the heck I'm supposed to be doing in it!
Until then ignorance is bliss ~
Honestly I feel pretty badly for my kids for the simple fact that I am totally winging this "grown-up" thing and if they make it out of my craziness without being a total menace to society that will be a blessing. Now there are moments when I can look at myself in the mirror and say "Sally girl - you're doing all right"; a declaration that typically comes after a few cocktails, but that's not the point. The point is that 98.7% of the time I am just going through the motions praying that if I pretend to be a reasonably decent person, walk and talk like I have some understanding of how to parent and make arrangements for the family to have clean underwear then I may just make it out of my 38th year alive.
While I have never considered myself to be a "grown-up" since in my world that title still belongs to my parents and everyone else around me; it seems to me that all of my friends have their act together and are clipping along quite nicely. What in the heck is my deal? In my early teenage years I remember thinking that living to be in your 30's was right up there with Grandma Moses and surely I would never live long enough to be thirty-anything. Could it be that my brain stopped developing back then and all of the important goodies I should've been storing in my noggin for the "grown-up years" got lost in the shuffle of does my butt look big in this and I wonder if so-n-so will be out tonight? There is rarely a time when my parents are unable to answer any question I may have or have a stockpile of helpful (though sometimes unsolicited) advise. Not much gets past them and I worry about my ability to offer the same nuggets of important life knowledge to my little family. Need something hemmed, questions about health care, automotive care, politics, bee-sting relief, how to make a casserole, religion, cultures, the economy, gardening tips, the universe ... Check, Check, Check. My grown-ups know it all! Why don't I know these things? What if I never will! GASP!
Could it be that there is a What should already be embedded into your brain by the time you reach 38 years old, book floating around out there that I just haven't found? (You better believe I have been looking) Maybe an app I'm not aware of because I have an iPhone and it is only offered to Droid users? That would be my freaking luck. Oh Happy Birthday to me. Hopefully one day I will be fortunate enough I have a better understanding of the world and what in the heck I'm supposed to be doing in it!
Until then ignorance is bliss ~
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