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.




 

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?

Some other scary fantastic "signs" have been going on, like not having to go to the ladies room on my 2 hour drive back home through Never-Never-Farmland Extravaganza where it never fails that somebody (me) has to stop 1,000 times on Deliverance dirt roads.  An uninterrupted drive home with all of my favorite old school tunes on a super crap day, a peppering of happy morning kids,  finding a can of .59 cents Coke that was not circa 1942, finally saw a donkey in a field of cows that I had been trying to locate for over a month, Annie decided she doesn't want to be a Go-Go Dancer and my husband washed the dishes without me having to cry about it.

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.

Would I lie to you?

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.

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?

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.       

 Oh and it's raining, I have curly hair and ran out of mousse this morning.  Perfect.              

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.