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.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
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 ~
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Out With The Old, In With The Old
In preparation for this month's GNO (Girls Night Out) which is an 80's themed shindig, I have spend this past week coming to grips with the fact that I have been dressing in 80's attire since, well ... the 80's. Before you starting high fiving each other thinking old Sally girl is totally rad and sending me mad props for my coolness, let me preface this blog by mentioning that they are not the "cool" 80's clothes. Ha Ha, Nope. More like a Wham/Golden Girls clothing line. The discovery started off with coolots and have zigzagged their way up to the shirts, makeup and hair; back down again to the shoes. Everything I need for tonight can be found in my supposedly present day closet.
Unfortunately finding a time capsule in my closet is not the worst of my problems, apparently I am so crazy about my dated clothing line that I gravitate back to it in the local Thrift Store and buy the damn things all over again! What kind of sicko 80's diva am I? I am totally not kidding. For the past 2 days I have scoured the local thrift and dollar stores; purchasing a few items for my party tonight and have been super excited about my finds. Last night while showing off my bounty of 80's coolness to my husband, he calmly makes an observation that some of the items look vaguely familiar. Familiar like: The ones you just took to Goodwill last month during your monthly I hate all my clothes meltdown. I kid you not. It's bad enough I had the freaking clothes still hanging in my closet 20 years past their prime and still being worn BUT I purchased them for the SECOND time and brought them back into my home to put on my "not 1980's" body!!! Who freaking does that? Stunned, I began putting away the 80's makeup I had also just purchased for the party only to find it's mate already chilling out in my makeup bag. Dear Sweet Baby Jesus. Unless you are a Drag Queen or 5 years old, there really isn't a legitimate excuse for owning frosted pink lipstick after 1982. Come to find out, that is except if you are me.
Nevertheless, I am super excited about partying it up Madonna style tonight with my gal pals. Some of us have been friends for 5, 10, 15+ years and others have been since junior high, back in their true 80's heyday. I'll be showing up in all my 80's diva glory with a six pack of Purple Passion and the coolest Ray Baners the Dollar Store has to offer. Maybe I am destined to only be attracted to the tackiest grandma style of only one decade which happens to be the 1980's, and at this point I'm leaning very strongly on that theory. But it can always be worse. I could be a nudist with frosted pink lipstick.
Now how would you explain that to the neighbors?
Unfortunately finding a time capsule in my closet is not the worst of my problems, apparently I am so crazy about my dated clothing line that I gravitate back to it in the local Thrift Store and buy the damn things all over again! What kind of sicko 80's diva am I? I am totally not kidding. For the past 2 days I have scoured the local thrift and dollar stores; purchasing a few items for my party tonight and have been super excited about my finds. Last night while showing off my bounty of 80's coolness to my husband, he calmly makes an observation that some of the items look vaguely familiar. Familiar like: The ones you just took to Goodwill last month during your monthly I hate all my clothes meltdown. I kid you not. It's bad enough I had the freaking clothes still hanging in my closet 20 years past their prime and still being worn BUT I purchased them for the SECOND time and brought them back into my home to put on my "not 1980's" body!!! Who freaking does that? Stunned, I began putting away the 80's makeup I had also just purchased for the party only to find it's mate already chilling out in my makeup bag. Dear Sweet Baby Jesus. Unless you are a Drag Queen or 5 years old, there really isn't a legitimate excuse for owning frosted pink lipstick after 1982. Come to find out, that is except if you are me.
Nevertheless, I am super excited about partying it up Madonna style tonight with my gal pals. Some of us have been friends for 5, 10, 15+ years and others have been since junior high, back in their true 80's heyday. I'll be showing up in all my 80's diva glory with a six pack of Purple Passion and the coolest Ray Baners the Dollar Store has to offer. Maybe I am destined to only be attracted to the tackiest grandma style of only one decade which happens to be the 1980's, and at this point I'm leaning very strongly on that theory. But it can always be worse. I could be a nudist with frosted pink lipstick.
Now how would you explain that to the neighbors?
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Just Call Me Bruce Lee
It's safe to say that I am not a violent person and I truly enjoy people and their company but in the past few weeks my actions have convinced me that not only do I have a brain tumor but I am also 92.6% sure I was a Bruce Lee Martial Arts Master in a Pre-Sally life, life. The examples are numerous with the most damning evidence being my overwhelming urge to karate chop any poor creature that does not move at my preferred speed, talks too much in a checkout lane or breathes too much. My patience is hanging by a noodle people.
I am a terrible person and I know this but it cannot be helped. Just last week this sweet little old creepy old little old fella was trying to be funny by telling bubble gum wrapper jokes while we were standing in the 5 hour checkout lane at Walmart. Now let me preface this by saying I purposely do without a cart on most visits so I will not buy unnecessary crap; this morning was no exception. While I'm standing there in the "Express Line" with an armload of private lady things, Mr. Last Comic Standing was un-charming our lane full of pissed off people with jokes a kindergartner wouldn't laugh at. I know this sounds awful but after 7 agonizing minutes of "Knock Knock" and "What Do You Get When ..." I found myself rounding back my shoulders, rolling by neck around and hopping up and down like Daniel-Son getting limber to preform a Karate Kid Crane Kick.
It all comes back to Bruce Lee. A smart mouth response from one of the kids could very easily result in a swift-kick to the legs and I have no problem breaking out some "Enter The Dragon" moves when my family chooses to not give my iconic meltdowns their due respect. Chop Chop people! I don't know where it comes from but I try hard to be pleasant but after a few minutes of a no thank you or ha ha laugh, I really need folks to back off. Not long ago I had to threaten a lady who was holding up the Diary Queen line with a Kung Pao Chicken to the neck look if she did not hurry up and place her order. For the love of Mr. Miyagi! It's freaking ice cream!
I know my kids think I am mental but this insane Hong Kong Fooey behavior and addiction to rice is only another symptom of my tumor of which I have no control. People should fear me but alas they do not. It must be my curly hair and angelic face. How could they possibly know that under my cool exterior a Karate Master lies in wait?
I am a terrible person and I know this but it cannot be helped. Just last week this sweet little old creepy old little old fella was trying to be funny by telling bubble gum wrapper jokes while we were standing in the 5 hour checkout lane at Walmart. Now let me preface this by saying I purposely do without a cart on most visits so I will not buy unnecessary crap; this morning was no exception. While I'm standing there in the "Express Line" with an armload of private lady things, Mr. Last Comic Standing was un-charming our lane full of pissed off people with jokes a kindergartner wouldn't laugh at. I know this sounds awful but after 7 agonizing minutes of "Knock Knock" and "What Do You Get When ..." I found myself rounding back my shoulders, rolling by neck around and hopping up and down like Daniel-Son getting limber to preform a Karate Kid Crane Kick.
It all comes back to Bruce Lee. A smart mouth response from one of the kids could very easily result in a swift-kick to the legs and I have no problem breaking out some "Enter The Dragon" moves when my family chooses to not give my iconic meltdowns their due respect. Chop Chop people! I don't know where it comes from but I try hard to be pleasant but after a few minutes of a no thank you or ha ha laugh, I really need folks to back off. Not long ago I had to threaten a lady who was holding up the Diary Queen line with a Kung Pao Chicken to the neck look if she did not hurry up and place her order. For the love of Mr. Miyagi! It's freaking ice cream!
I know my kids think I am mental but this insane Hong Kong Fooey behavior and addiction to rice is only another symptom of my tumor of which I have no control. People should fear me but alas they do not. It must be my curly hair and angelic face. How could they possibly know that under my cool exterior a Karate Master lies in wait?
Friday, March 30, 2012
It Must Be A Toomaah
After many restless nights I finally said goodbye to some old friends this morning. What is the poem .. "If you haven't been able to fit your lard butt into something for 2 decades it's probably time to take it out of your closet, and even if you could why are you freaking wearing 20+ year old clothes you loser?" Any-Who, there I stood in front of my closet removing much loved articles of clothing that let's face it; will never be worn by this girl again. Fact. All snotty and bleary eyed feeling sorry for myself that my favorite jeans will never grace my old ass again, there I stood thinking to myself this probably wasn't the smartest way to begin my Friday but why wait another torturous year by taking up valuable closet space? So there I stood stuffing my dreams of sizes long past into a bag. On a high note I was finally able to use the ginormous Thirty-One bag I just HAD to buy that could serve no useful purpose other than to dispose of dead husbands, hold food for Shamu or help dispose of my past. score
About 10 good minutes into the deforestation I stumbled upon the the most horrific scene that I am still shaking from with the shock of it all. Hanging quietly in the backedy back back there they were. I don't even think it registered what I was seeing until I heard myself gasp .. "Holy Mary Tyler Moore! There's a pair of Coolots in here!" At that split second all I could muster was the realization that I probably have a brain tumor. I am being totally serious. Let me be the first to admit that ol' Sally is far from being a fashion plate by any stretch of the imagination but a pair of COOLOTS!! It's possible I may have blacked out for a moment. With the speed of a Leopard Cheetah I yanked the evidence from the hanger and thew them into a bag and then the back of my truck to dispose of later today. The plan is to throw them deep into the woods on some deserted back road with the hope if found, someone will just assume a homeless alien/person accidentally left them behind. I mean why would anyone past the year 1970 purposely buy a pair? I hope my tire tracks cannot be traced.
On the way to my office I could not stop thinking about this morning's bombshell and have been self-diagnosing for a brain tumor ever since. Coolots in a 37 year old's closet is a grave matter indeed and not one to be taken lightly. Something is terribly terribly wrong with me. All this time whenever I heard about some mother just up and leaving her family, vanishing for years until she is discovered by the roadside in Siler City peddling macrame and shark tooth necklaces; I would say to myself while shaking my head ... Kids. It's got to be her kids. They they finally driven her bonkers. After years of keep your hands to yourself and yes you have to brush your teeth ... dirtball, the poor lady flipped her wig and while driving home just went right past her house and just kept on going. Now I'm convinced she had a brain tumor and just didn't know it. Poor girl. All those years knitting and beading and she's toast. shame
Now that all arrows point to my toomaah (in my best Schwarzenegger voice) and my days are numbered I must admit that I'm concerned that my husband and so-called friends must be afflicted with brain tumors as well. There is just no other explanation for people that supposedly love me and have a concern for my well being, would allow me to leave the house in coolots much less purchase them. Could this be a tumor epidemic or a decade old joke on me? Think about the howls of laughter at my expense as they watch me running across the field at half my normal pace because of the wind drag from the coolot sails. Ok, more likely walking.
Since my demise is just around the corner only 2 questions remain. #1) Should I cancel my teeth cleaning appointment in mid April? #2) On the slim chance there isn't a tumor after all, is it possible for someone to CSI my fingerprints from the coolots and it lead them back to me?
Siler City here I come.
About 10 good minutes into the deforestation I stumbled upon the the most horrific scene that I am still shaking from with the shock of it all. Hanging quietly in the backedy back back there they were. I don't even think it registered what I was seeing until I heard myself gasp .. "Holy Mary Tyler Moore! There's a pair of Coolots in here!" At that split second all I could muster was the realization that I probably have a brain tumor. I am being totally serious. Let me be the first to admit that ol' Sally is far from being a fashion plate by any stretch of the imagination but a pair of COOLOTS!! It's possible I may have blacked out for a moment. With the speed of a Leopard Cheetah I yanked the evidence from the hanger and thew them into a bag and then the back of my truck to dispose of later today. The plan is to throw them deep into the woods on some deserted back road with the hope if found, someone will just assume a homeless alien/person accidentally left them behind. I mean why would anyone past the year 1970 purposely buy a pair? I hope my tire tracks cannot be traced.
On the way to my office I could not stop thinking about this morning's bombshell and have been self-diagnosing for a brain tumor ever since. Coolots in a 37 year old's closet is a grave matter indeed and not one to be taken lightly. Something is terribly terribly wrong with me. All this time whenever I heard about some mother just up and leaving her family, vanishing for years until she is discovered by the roadside in Siler City peddling macrame and shark tooth necklaces; I would say to myself while shaking my head ... Kids. It's got to be her kids. They they finally driven her bonkers. After years of keep your hands to yourself and yes you have to brush your teeth ... dirtball, the poor lady flipped her wig and while driving home just went right past her house and just kept on going. Now I'm convinced she had a brain tumor and just didn't know it. Poor girl. All those years knitting and beading and she's toast. shame
Now that all arrows point to my toomaah (in my best Schwarzenegger voice) and my days are numbered I must admit that I'm concerned that my husband and so-called friends must be afflicted with brain tumors as well. There is just no other explanation for people that supposedly love me and have a concern for my well being, would allow me to leave the house in coolots much less purchase them. Could this be a tumor epidemic or a decade old joke on me? Think about the howls of laughter at my expense as they watch me running across the field at half my normal pace because of the wind drag from the coolot sails. Ok, more likely walking.
Since my demise is just around the corner only 2 questions remain. #1) Should I cancel my teeth cleaning appointment in mid April? #2) On the slim chance there isn't a tumor after all, is it possible for someone to CSI my fingerprints from the coolots and it lead them back to me?
Siler City here I come.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
For The Love of Richard Simmons, Just Tell Me Already
For the past few weeks I have been in a pretty mediocre vibe, knowing that I really need to make some changes in my life but not quite sure where or when to start this transformation. Typically during times like these I will just ask the man upstairs, Richard Simmons my pseudo life coach or any angel hanging around bored stiff to please send me a sign, just a little nudge in the right direction or something to show me things are going to be alrighty. Usually my plead for assistance calms me and a few instances here and there settles my nerves and is helpful, but alas this time not so much.
Why isn't there a handbook on what are "true signs" anyway? What determines if something is a sign, coincidence, voodoo curse or just a normal occurrence that would have happened regardless? I am nutso already so my recent vague happenings just make me even more bonkers than before I asked for help in the first place. I know God's schedule is mad busy but can he not just do a chick a favor and stop by the hizzy? fast fast - short and sweet. Pop by all casual in his Jesus sandals and robe, give it to me straight and then move along to the next kooky broad.
Here are some examples:
- Went to the beach and it was covered with black Jingle Shells, Lady Slippers and unbroken Angel Wings. This never happens.
- Accidentally Goodwilled my comfortable (fatty-boom-ba-laddy) pants and stuck myself the with the 2 sizes too small version that I was forced to wear (hideous) for my lunch date with my mother and sister back home and I didn't see anyone I knew. Unheard of luck.
- A childhood friend I had no contact with in over a decade found me through fb a week after my mother and I were reminiscing about her family as we drove down our old street. ESP awesomeness
- Worried that the kid's games will take place at the same time this weekend on opposite sides of town while my husband works and I'm alone until the long awaited schedule shows they are 7 hours apart. Whew.
- Started the week with a drawer full of clean panties and my son replaced the toilet paper and didn't leave me stranded. Magic.
- Parents bought a slew of smoke alarms for our 500 sq. ft. birdhouse to add to the 4 we already have installed. Should we be practicing stop, drop and roll? Just tell me!
- Had a 3 day stomach virus so I was amazingly able to button the only clean work slacks that I own. Straight up Voodoo Luck.
- On this mornings drive I got behind a VW Golf, my first car who's wheel fell off in front of the entire town and a school bus with the same number of the one I crashed into at the end of my street during high school. What are the odds?
There isn't enough margarita mix available for me to try and decipher all these going-ons. For goodness sakes Richard Simmons! Are things on the upswing or are you buttering me up for a colossal heaping of whoop-ass life lessons? Send me a fifth of Kettle One and let's talk about it.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
All Funked Up
I'm in a terrible funk and have no plans of getting myself out of it any time soon. Truth be told I am pretty wary of people who are habitually in a good mood, always wanting to spread around some cheer and happy thoughts. Keep your it could always be worse unsolicited crazy-talk and leave me in my cloud of funkness and Swiss Cakes you wackadoo. Even this morning I was perfectly happy in my mood of doom and gloom with lips in full sneer, brow wrinkled, shoulders all hunched over and pissed off at the world when this one hundred thousand million year old man opened the door for me at the gas station. He even had the nerve to smile and tell me to have a nice day! "Shove it Gramps" was only a breath away but I hadn't the nerve ... this time.
What's so great about being in a good mood anyway? You can't get away with half the crap you can during an epic "funk phase". For instance during my day off last week after I completed the drudgery of my day off duties with running errands, laundry, vacuuming, dusting, yada yada yada, I sat down on the couch and mashed ass for 3 good hours until the kids got home from school. Normally I would not allow myself to sit and stew for that amount of time without feeling terribly guilty for days afterwards but during my time of blahness it's totally encouraged. Eating an entire box of Wheat Thins in a single sitting on a happy mood day would be unacceptable but on a funk day would be forgiven. Standing in front of your closet in a full-throttle ugly tizzy while yelling at your husband that you have nothing to wear and blaming him for breathing while he stands there shell-shocked ... Good Mood Day = Graceless. Funk Day = Tolerable. Mad at the world, face in a perma-scowl, hating your job and everyone else that gets in your way is perfectly fitting during a funk phase yet severely frowned upon on a normal basis.
Sometimes I just don't want to look on the bright side of life. Instead I prefer crying and moping, ho-hum myself around town and sulk with a little rain storm cloud lingering above my head. Who wants to be upbeat and perky when you can be glum and sullen?
Besides, frown lines are sexy.
What's so great about being in a good mood anyway? You can't get away with half the crap you can during an epic "funk phase". For instance during my day off last week after I completed the drudgery of my day off duties with running errands, laundry, vacuuming, dusting, yada yada yada, I sat down on the couch and mashed ass for 3 good hours until the kids got home from school. Normally I would not allow myself to sit and stew for that amount of time without feeling terribly guilty for days afterwards but during my time of blahness it's totally encouraged. Eating an entire box of Wheat Thins in a single sitting on a happy mood day would be unacceptable but on a funk day would be forgiven. Standing in front of your closet in a full-throttle ugly tizzy while yelling at your husband that you have nothing to wear and blaming him for breathing while he stands there shell-shocked ... Good Mood Day = Graceless. Funk Day = Tolerable. Mad at the world, face in a perma-scowl, hating your job and everyone else that gets in your way is perfectly fitting during a funk phase yet severely frowned upon on a normal basis.
Sometimes I just don't want to look on the bright side of life. Instead I prefer crying and moping, ho-hum myself around town and sulk with a little rain storm cloud lingering above my head. Who wants to be upbeat and perky when you can be glum and sullen?
Besides, frown lines are sexy.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Life Is A Beach: Dear Lord, Give me patience or give me vodka ...
Life Is A Beach: Dear Lord, Give me patience or give me vodka ...: On weekday mornings my husband leaves the house for work a full 45 minutes before myself and the kids do for school . If I had not driven h...
Dear Lord, Give me patience or give me vodka ...
On weekday mornings my husband leaves the house for work a full 45 minutes before myself and the kids do for school. If I had not driven him to said job in the past I would seriously question his need to leave me home alone with our little monsters on a school day morning for an extended period of time, alone. Did I say alone? A-flippin-lone with Hollywood and Miss Yes you are my mother but that doesn't mean I am going to do anything you say.
Here was my morning, I'm sure some of you can relate.
Scene: Breakfast Table with Annie who will only answer to Sarah and Drama King Carl
Me - Okay kids, let's eat some breakfast so we can finish getting ready for school! (My best Mom smile possible at 6:20 am)
Carl - I don't feel so good. (Sad face) My stomach hurts, I need to use the restroom but that will make us late for school. (whines)
Me - Carl don't worry about that just go ahead and take your time, we won't be late and everything will be just fine. (This is code for "Hurry up and make it snappy")
30 Minutes Later ......
Me - Carl good grief you're still in the restroom! Come on son, we're going to be late!
Carl - (Hysterical) Mom!! Well that's just perfect, I told you we would be late but you always say "Don't worry about being late Carl (snicker) just go to the restroom and everything will be just fine". Well now we are late, wow. Thanks a lot Mom. Wow (all the smartass comments end with "wow")
I didn't know it was possible for my kid to have a complete and utter epic meltdown on the toilet but apparently it is. Jesus
On the other side of the Funhouse is Annie who now wants to be called Sarah which is actually her given name and what I wanted us to use instead of a nickname from the get-go. But, while pregnant Carl began calling her Annie and it just stuck which makes it virtually impossible to revert to calling her Sarah Anne or just Sarah. For this infraction Annie - Sarah - Moonbeam - whatever claims she will NEVER EVER forgive Carl and screams daily, "Thanks a lot Carl! You've ruined my life!" Personally I think that's a little harsh but I'm too depleted to take on that cause and could really care less what she calls herself. Today it's Sarah and tomorrow it will be Sun, next week she'll want us to call her Cotton.
The final 10 minutes in the house consist of me quickly applying makeup and deodorant simultaneously while yelling at Carl to stop yelling at Annie, who is yelling at Carl to mind his own business while she stuffs her mismatched socked feet into a pair of patent leather Mary Janes that are 3 sizes too small and have been given away 10 times at least but keep reappearing on her feet. Rushing, whining and sweating, out the door and into the truck we go when I remember that I had actually set the clocks 10 minutes ahead last week during a similar apocalyptic morning as a cushion just for disasters like this. Glancing over at Annie who's hair looks like a cow licked her from forehead to collar and Carl who is giving me an Oscar worthy scowl I start seriously considering changing our breakfast meals.
Jello Shots anyone?
Here was my morning, I'm sure some of you can relate.
Scene: Breakfast Table with Annie who will only answer to Sarah and Drama King Carl
Me - Okay kids, let's eat some breakfast so we can finish getting ready for school! (My best Mom smile possible at 6:20 am)
Carl - I don't feel so good. (Sad face) My stomach hurts, I need to use the restroom but that will make us late for school. (whines)
Me - Carl don't worry about that just go ahead and take your time, we won't be late and everything will be just fine. (This is code for "Hurry up and make it snappy")
30 Minutes Later ......
Me - Carl good grief you're still in the restroom! Come on son, we're going to be late!
Carl - (Hysterical) Mom!! Well that's just perfect, I told you we would be late but you always say "Don't worry about being late Carl (snicker) just go to the restroom and everything will be just fine". Well now we are late, wow. Thanks a lot Mom. Wow (all the smartass comments end with "wow")
I didn't know it was possible for my kid to have a complete and utter epic meltdown on the toilet but apparently it is. Jesus
On the other side of the Funhouse is Annie who now wants to be called Sarah which is actually her given name and what I wanted us to use instead of a nickname from the get-go. But, while pregnant Carl began calling her Annie and it just stuck which makes it virtually impossible to revert to calling her Sarah Anne or just Sarah. For this infraction Annie - Sarah - Moonbeam - whatever claims she will NEVER EVER forgive Carl and screams daily, "Thanks a lot Carl! You've ruined my life!" Personally I think that's a little harsh but I'm too depleted to take on that cause and could really care less what she calls herself. Today it's Sarah and tomorrow it will be Sun, next week she'll want us to call her Cotton.
The final 10 minutes in the house consist of me quickly applying makeup and deodorant simultaneously while yelling at Carl to stop yelling at Annie, who is yelling at Carl to mind his own business while she stuffs her mismatched socked feet into a pair of patent leather Mary Janes that are 3 sizes too small and have been given away 10 times at least but keep reappearing on her feet. Rushing, whining and sweating, out the door and into the truck we go when I remember that I had actually set the clocks 10 minutes ahead last week during a similar apocalyptic morning as a cushion just for disasters like this. Glancing over at Annie who's hair looks like a cow licked her from forehead to collar and Carl who is giving me an Oscar worthy scowl I start seriously considering changing our breakfast meals.
Jello Shots anyone?
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Ninja Spiders and Olivia Newton-John
Before we get started please consider this: If you enjoy quotes from the Bible, unicorns, rainbows, happy thoughts and are offended by potty language and a bad attitude I suggest you close this blog post and move along. You've been warned ....
I should have known this morning would blow when I woke up with a sore throat and my never ending headache with the kids actually in a great mood and not whining at 6 am. This never happens. Maybe I was blindsided by Annie still holding onto my old Raggedy Ann that she found burrowed somewhere in her bottomless pit of stuffed animals. My Grandmother made me that doll and just seeing her sweet little face loving my Raggedy Ann warped me into thinking this was an excellent start to our day and things were going to go smoothly. Warning #1
Warning #2 came while I was in the shower saving and nicked my heel like a 13 year old girl. Holy Cow that hurts. Now I have gone through childbirth twice and in a pain toss-up between nicking the back of your heel or knee with a razor in soapy water or unloading a 7 lb. plus sack of potatoes from your who-ha, I'd go with the tator tots every time. Labor hurts yes but then its over and done with; a razor cut is a continual bee sting reminder that shaving sucks every time the back of your shoe, hem of your pants or hand lotion touches that itty bitty slice.
The next warning came when rummaging through our medicine box and the only Band-Aids I could only find were those shitty character ones that never stay on. So there I go hobbling into the kitchen with half of my Snoopy Band-Aid flowing in the breeze, annoyed at myself for always purchasing the crappy ones out of guilt. It never fails that by the time we reach that section in Walmart I feel so guilty for hollering at my kids and chasing them down practically tying them to the grocery cart, that I cave in and buy those Band-Aids I know are crap just to put a smile back on their faces. Also I do this with the hope those Walmart employees watching me on the security cameras will not call DSS for fear that I will in fact do what I promised on aisle 9 by giving every single freaking thing they have away if they do not stop freaking asking me for a new freaking toy every single freaking time we step into the freaking Walmart! Damn. So there we are at the breakfast table with my crap Band-Aid, happy suspicious children and the darn Ident-A-Kid packet that I have pushed aside for over a week and is now due with my $16.00. I stand there taking a moment to justify not getting the ID cards for my precious children in case they are lost or kidnapped since we have up-teen million pictures of them; Belks has an awesome sale going on. Be a responsible loving Mother and buy your children an ID card vs a new pair of black flats. Hmmmm. To not risk having their teachers think that I am a horrible mother I bought the ID cards. Oh, the pressure.
The next warning, #3 came when I decided to wear a "trendy" shirt that is supposed to look good on me (so said the 80 year old sales lady) where the bottom of it keeps inching its way above my belt. This is joined by a enormous oversized neckline that slides down over my shoulder exposing my 1989 black camisole and therefore makes me look like an Olivia Newton-John wannabe. WTF? Can a girl not get a break? Apparently not. I look like a homeless Mexican with sail-like sleeves that show my armpits which I hate and is making me sweat and I will reek by lunchtime. That is if the stench can penetrate 20 layers of deodorant I schlepped on to prevent that from happening. Why in the hell I ever thought this Pedro from South of The Border look was good for me I will never know. To top off this monstrosity the heel of my favorite shoes broke this morning and I can't buy a new pair since I spent my money on those lousy ID cards. Needy kids and old ladies do me in every single time.
Warnings #4 - #100 went down like this:
- Trapped on the way to school listening to a screeching and whining argument over who had the best dance music Flo Rida (Carl) or Black Eyed Peas (Annie). joy
- While stuck in the school car line an evil ninja spider attacked me with no jumping out of the car option, no opening the door and flailing around option. Just had to sit there squirming and saying lots of bad words.
- Forced to search under my car seats where the ninja spider was hiding for car vacuum quarters.
- Out of 4 car vacuums I picked the one with the broken hose. Shit
- Used half of my WW points and 3 bucks on a biscuit with runny eggs (they have frozen eggs how is this possible?) 1 slice of bacon and zip for napkins. Bastards.
- Watched the gas raise 15 cents with my "low fuel" light blinking all the way to work while people raced past me like that Indy 750 Danika Fitzpatrick or whatever her name is race car broad. If one of those idiots kill me I'm going to be pissed.
- Assaulted by the smell of dead ass while climbing the front steps to my real estate job (what a joke) that has been here for over a week. I would do some of my Law & Order SVU investigation tricks but I can't be bothered, I've got stuff to bitch about.
- Desperately wanting to buy a bag of chips and 2 liter of Coke but I can't take the risk of running out of gas since I didn't stop this morning and someone stopping to help me and seeing that I am alone with the entire convenience store stuffed into my car.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Breathe if you can hear me
There was a time when I thought my purpose in this life was to have children so I could nurture them as they grown into lovely, kind and generous adults, basking in the glow of their beautiful lives knowing I had a small part in their happiness. #1 I watch too many Hallmark movies and #2 I've booked too many flights to La La Land because nothing could be further from the truth.
I have been given a permanent position in an evil scheme called Opposite Day. Maybe you have heard of this exhaustive (for me) little game; the newest version of waterboarding and all the rage with my kids. No? My little ratfinks think that it is a hoot and my only defense is to ask of them what I would like not to be done, all the while praying in return the complete opposite "what I do want/need/like" will be greeted with full-fledged eagerness to hopefully irritate Mommy. A request for them to stay inside is happily ignored and out they go to play while I relish some much needed silence. "You don't have to eat dinner now" results in a scampering to the dinner table, "Yes you can stay up all night" equals a delicious murmur of "Mommy I'm ready for bed" and announcing I don't mind if a wet towel remains on a bedroom floor quickly becomes a mad dash for the bathroom towel rod. Dr. Spock forgot to add a chapter on this delightful little game that could have really come in handy while I was choosing college courses and I might not have skipped over that Creative Thinking seminar. Child Expert my big toe. Hmpf
The cherry on top of this daily dose of fun fun fun is the I know you are talking to me because we live in a birdhouse where you can hear every little peep and also because you are looking directly at me and called me by name but I am going to pretend that I am deaf game. Disney World has jack on this treasure trove of never ending good times, enjoyed by all ages. Just ask my husband. I know for a fact my children do not have the slightest hearing problem. Should you utter the word "candy" within a 100 mile radius of where they are standing they will seek you out like a heat missile. Once found they will pester you for some until you are scrounging for last year's Halloween treats hidden behind the All-Purpose Flour that was purchased for some long forgotten recipe. Truth. I will ask the kids 1,000 times to help with a simple chore or to even just brush their teeth and they will continue on with whatever they are doing at that time as if I never uttered a word. An hour long conversation will have passed between my husband and myself (or so I thought) when I will realize he hasn't paid attention to not one syllable. I could make plans to sell all our belongings and sail to Narnia in my 1975 Sunfish with him sitting right beside me and when I mention it again not a day later he looks at me as if I am crazy. He's lucky I didn't mistake his silence for agreeing with me and sold all our crap in the meantime. I bet if I peppered my sentences with the word sex I may just get a whole lot more accomplished around here. "Hey Babe, you know the outside building sex really needs to be sex organized. Would you sex please help me sex fold that basket of clothes that have been sex that you keep sex walking around?" It's worth a try.
Good times at the Stidham house. Good Good Times.
I have been given a permanent position in an evil scheme called Opposite Day. Maybe you have heard of this exhaustive (for me) little game; the newest version of waterboarding and all the rage with my kids. No? My little ratfinks think that it is a hoot and my only defense is to ask of them what I would like not to be done, all the while praying in return the complete opposite "what I do want/need/like" will be greeted with full-fledged eagerness to hopefully irritate Mommy. A request for them to stay inside is happily ignored and out they go to play while I relish some much needed silence. "You don't have to eat dinner now" results in a scampering to the dinner table, "Yes you can stay up all night" equals a delicious murmur of "Mommy I'm ready for bed" and announcing I don't mind if a wet towel remains on a bedroom floor quickly becomes a mad dash for the bathroom towel rod. Dr. Spock forgot to add a chapter on this delightful little game that could have really come in handy while I was choosing college courses and I might not have skipped over that Creative Thinking seminar. Child Expert my big toe. Hmpf
The cherry on top of this daily dose of fun fun fun is the I know you are talking to me because we live in a birdhouse where you can hear every little peep and also because you are looking directly at me and called me by name but I am going to pretend that I am deaf game. Disney World has jack on this treasure trove of never ending good times, enjoyed by all ages. Just ask my husband. I know for a fact my children do not have the slightest hearing problem. Should you utter the word "candy" within a 100 mile radius of where they are standing they will seek you out like a heat missile. Once found they will pester you for some until you are scrounging for last year's Halloween treats hidden behind the All-Purpose Flour that was purchased for some long forgotten recipe. Truth. I will ask the kids 1,000 times to help with a simple chore or to even just brush their teeth and they will continue on with whatever they are doing at that time as if I never uttered a word. An hour long conversation will have passed between my husband and myself (or so I thought) when I will realize he hasn't paid attention to not one syllable. I could make plans to sell all our belongings and sail to Narnia in my 1975 Sunfish with him sitting right beside me and when I mention it again not a day later he looks at me as if I am crazy. He's lucky I didn't mistake his silence for agreeing with me and sold all our crap in the meantime. I bet if I peppered my sentences with the word sex I may just get a whole lot more accomplished around here. "Hey Babe, you know the outside building sex really needs to be sex organized. Would you sex please help me sex fold that basket of clothes that have been sex that you keep sex walking around?" It's worth a try.
Good times at the Stidham house. Good Good Times.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Out with the old box of old stuff, and in to a new box filled with more old stuff that I put in a new box filled with more old stuff.
I am an unbalanced person. Not "unbalanced" like I'm going to freak out on someone for cutting in line at Walmart by walloping them in the noggin with my bag of frozen peas, more like bananas-weird-slightly not normal "unbalanced". On a side note: thank freaking
Merriam Webster dictionary Gwen Stefani sang that stupid bananas song or I'd never spell that word correctly. Ahem, as I was saying ...
Hello my name is Sarah Alice aka Sally and I am a judger. I judge others. Yeah, I said it. I judge, judge, judgey - judge - judge. Not proud of it but I'll admit to it, I totally do. Yes I know perfectly well that Noah or Peter, maybe Paul, Owen or Jessie Mae in the Bible said not to judge others but I cannot help myself. One of my worst offences involves me sitting on my couch and letting out a guffaw or smirk at those bat-shit crazy people on Reality TV. Please excuse my language but some of those cats are mental, and I can't get enough of it. Some nights I find myself 1/2 box of Wheat Thins deep into Mob Wives, This Ain't Yo Mama's Street Corner, Kitchen Nightmares Part 1,000, My Maid of Honor Married Her Dog or some other trashy show that is playing at 3 am. There I perch in all my judging glory shaking my head at the poor nutcases that 20 years ago were just known as that wacky dressed lady or redneck moonshiner that lived in the trailer down the street you would never think twice about. Now you will find me completely engrossed for the duration while they take front row seats in my living room and I just stare in wonder. And Judgement.
Hoarders is without a doubt the most unbelievably mesmerizing television show I have ever seen. There I sit dumbfounded by this terrible mental disease these poor people suffer from, thinking out loud how in the free world does someone allow themselves to accumulate so much STUFF! This is being shouted towards my husband who stares back at me in total bewilderment while we are surrounded by all of my stuff. The only difference between me and poor Pennsylvania Linda from last night is that my crap is nicely tucked away ... in boxes, baskets and cabinets. While I am wild-eyed and snurking at Linda last night, there sits a basket beside me full of blankets! There's the one my Grandmother made, Oma made, 2 fuzzy Christmas ones, the blue fleece, a fluffy plaid number, First Methodist from Lake Waccamaw throw, Dora, Elmo .... you get the picture. We are a family of 4. Just 4. Not to mention each time I decide to weed out old books, Tupperware, laundry room junk - you name it, I just replace the old crumpled box they sit in with a new box and keep it all. Nevermind the fact that I'll just add more old to the new box and nothing ever really gets thrown away. The box is new, the junk is contained and it's up on a shelf, under a table, in the storage room, back of closet, in a basket, cabinet, car trunk or under the kid's bed just as pretty as you please.
Don't even get me started on the Nanny shows, boy do I have a spoon full of advice for those parents who let their kids run the world. I'm an expert on having perfectly disciplined children, even have the crown to prove it.
Merriam Webster dictionary Gwen Stefani sang that stupid bananas song or I'd never spell that word correctly. Ahem, as I was saying ...
Hello my name is Sarah Alice aka Sally and I am a judger. I judge others. Yeah, I said it. I judge, judge, judgey - judge - judge. Not proud of it but I'll admit to it, I totally do. Yes I know perfectly well that Noah or Peter, maybe Paul, Owen or Jessie Mae in the Bible said not to judge others but I cannot help myself. One of my worst offences involves me sitting on my couch and letting out a guffaw or smirk at those bat-shit crazy people on Reality TV. Please excuse my language but some of those cats are mental, and I can't get enough of it. Some nights I find myself 1/2 box of Wheat Thins deep into Mob Wives, This Ain't Yo Mama's Street Corner, Kitchen Nightmares Part 1,000, My Maid of Honor Married Her Dog or some other trashy show that is playing at 3 am. There I perch in all my judging glory shaking my head at the poor nutcases that 20 years ago were just known as that wacky dressed lady or redneck moonshiner that lived in the trailer down the street you would never think twice about. Now you will find me completely engrossed for the duration while they take front row seats in my living room and I just stare in wonder. And Judgement.
Hoarders is without a doubt the most unbelievably mesmerizing television show I have ever seen. There I sit dumbfounded by this terrible mental disease these poor people suffer from, thinking out loud how in the free world does someone allow themselves to accumulate so much STUFF! This is being shouted towards my husband who stares back at me in total bewilderment while we are surrounded by all of my stuff. The only difference between me and poor Pennsylvania Linda from last night is that my crap is nicely tucked away ... in boxes, baskets and cabinets. While I am wild-eyed and snurking at Linda last night, there sits a basket beside me full of blankets! There's the one my Grandmother made, Oma made, 2 fuzzy Christmas ones, the blue fleece, a fluffy plaid number, First Methodist from Lake Waccamaw throw, Dora, Elmo .... you get the picture. We are a family of 4. Just 4. Not to mention each time I decide to weed out old books, Tupperware, laundry room junk - you name it, I just replace the old crumpled box they sit in with a new box and keep it all. Nevermind the fact that I'll just add more old to the new box and nothing ever really gets thrown away. The box is new, the junk is contained and it's up on a shelf, under a table, in the storage room, back of closet, in a basket, cabinet, car trunk or under the kid's bed just as pretty as you please.
Don't even get me started on the Nanny shows, boy do I have a spoon full of advice for those parents who let their kids run the world. I'm an expert on having perfectly disciplined children, even have the crown to prove it.
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