Did I Say That?

There are many phrases that instantaneously fly out of my mouth at this point in my life that I never ever thought I’d hear.  And yeah, I blame it ALL on parenting.  Cause kids?  They just constantly do weird shit.  Here are just a few of the ridiculous words that I’ve uttered over the past several years:

“Get that pea out of your nose!”

“Mommy’s boobs are not horns.”

“Don’t shoot your sister.”

“Please keep your hands out of your pants when you’re in the outfield.”

“Don’t pick your nose.”

“You won’t have any friends if you eat your boogers.”

“Do not ride the dog.”

” Shoes go on your feet, not the kitchen table.”

“Go to sleep or you’ll be short forever.”

“Plastic bags don’t go on your head.”

“Please don’t put your socks in the flower pots.”

“We do not eat bananas when we’re taking a poo.”

“Do not wear Mommy’s bra on your head.”

“No, rocks do NOT belong in the bathtub.”

“It’s not polite to spit at the neighbors.”

“Yes, you have to wear pants to the birthday party.”

“Mommy will go to jail if you don’t go to school.”

“Do not eat your toothpaste.”

“M&M’s are not a breakfast food.”

“We color on the paper, not on the wall.”

“Dead cicadas do not go in Mommy’s purse.”

“Do not suck on nickels.”

** WHAT ARE SOME OF THE CRAZY WORDS THAT HAVE COME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH???? **

To Hell With Housekeeping

Lately I’ve been contemplating whether to just give up on the whole housecleaning thing altogether. I mean, let’s be honest, no one in my family really gives a rat’s ass if the dishes are all piled up or if they have to dig all the way to China to find their favorite toy in the playroom. Every time I decide to waste my time tidying up around here, I wonder why the hell I even bother.

HOUSEKEEPING FAIL #1

Let’s take, for example, my son’s dresser in his room. I’m all for exhibiting baseball and soccer trophies, along with some memorable photos. But this?

Well this is nothing but a big old hodgepodge pile of crap! There’s no organization, no style, and absolutely no rhyme or reason to this display whatsoever.

HOUSEKEEPING FAIL #2

And then there’s my daughter’s dressing table in her room. It’s constantly junked up with little trinkets and toys and God only knows what all kinds of shit. I’ve told her no less than 3000 different times to clean it up, and apparently, this is her idea of clean:

I’m not sure she’d be able to find herself in the mirror if she even tried. It’d be like searching through a “Where’s Waldo?” book just to find her face. The chick is destined to have her own A&E special on t.v. one day.

HOUSEKEEPING FAIL #3

And my kitchen table? You know, the place where families typically gather to eat their meals each and every day? Yeah, well, mine just so happens to look like this right now:

You may or may not have noticed that there is a frickin’ rocket launcher smack dab in the middle of the damn thing. Really? I’m supposed to serve dinner around this giant missile as if it’s not even there? This monstrosity has been sitting there for DAYS and nobody seems to see that anything is even remotely out of place here.

HOUSEKEEPING FAIL #4

And the real kicker? Last night I was searching the cabinets in the kids’ bathroom for fingernail clippers, and you wanna know what I found in one of the drawers? Believe it or not, I stumbled onto this growing little collection:

Holy hell, just what is going on in my house?! I have no idea why in the name of Quilted Northern someone is saving up all these empty toilet paper rolls. And I’m not sure what’s worse — that someone’s preserving all these things or that I never even noticed until now.

One thing is abso-freaking-lutely crystal clear though:

Yep, I give up.

No Holdin’ Back

At what point in our development do we actually start giving a shit what other people think about us? I often find myself a little envious of kids and their ability to just say and do whatever they’re feeling without regard for whoever’s around them. They have absolutely no filter whatsoever, so they call it like they see it and do it when they feel it.

Take for example my son at his soccer practice last weekend. The kid clearly had to take a whiz, given that he was squeezing his johnson like a damn water hose; however, he insisted that he didn’t need to go. But after a few more minutes of watching him hop around, my husband finally persuaded him to take a trip to the Port-A-Potty with him. When they were about halfway to the can, my son decided to save himself some time and go ahead and drop trow as he was running. He scurried right along, peter waving in the breeze, while horrified girls in soccer duds watched from a distance. My son, Mr. One Track Mind, was oblivious, though, since he only had his eye on the prize.

Also this past weekend, there was the girl at my daughter’s birthday party who apparently didn’t care for the game we were playing. Rather than keeping her thoughts to herself, she blurted out, “This is soooooo boring.” And I didn’t hear this little phrase out of Negative Nancy’s mouth just one time. Oh no, she made sure she repeated it over and over and over again. I REALLY had to work hard to bite my tongue with that one, but you see, MY mama taught ME to not say anything at all if I can’t say anything nice.

My daughter is particularly skilled at saying anything and everything that’s on her little mind. In the span of just a few hours one day, the girl told me that my teeth were yellow, I had bad breath, and my hair looked like a wild woman’s. Way to make the woman WHO GAVE BIRTH TO YOU feel like a rock star! I know that she doesn’t mean any harm, but I still made sure to brush my teeth, throw on some whitening strips, and run a brush through my hair just in case.

And then there’s the constant public proclamations by BOTH of my kids about what they need to do in the bathroom. We could be in the middle of a ridiculously crowded restaurant or standing in a long-ass line at the grocery store, and neither one of them has even the slightest qualm about screaming out, “I GOTTA POOOOOOOOP!!!!!” It’s beyond awesome to have all eyes on you while your kid’s hand is crammed up his ass crack.

As embarrassing as it might seem at times, though, think about how liberating it would be if, as adults, we could share that same no-holds barred attitude toward society. You hate the sweater your mother-in-law gave you for Christmas? Tell her you wouldn’t use it to clean your toilets! You’re trying to get out of a dinner date with your creepy neighbors? Tell them they are the constant stars of your nightmares! Your husband asks if the sex was good for you even though you accidentally nodded off in the middle of it? Tell him you had a better orgasm at yoga the other day. I’d love to just speak my mind, if only just for a day. Something tells me, though, that I’d find out a whole new LITERAL meaning for the phrase “roll with the punches” if I did….

The Glass Explosion

     Ever have one of those moments where you realize how quickly your whole life could change in just the blink of an eye?  Well, we certainly had one of those so-called eye openers when we got home from Florida on Sunday night.  Nothing says “WELCOME HOME” like a little brush with death, eh?!

     We’d finally gotten the kids calmed down from all the Easter sugar they’d gorged on all day and had just tucked them away into bed, so that we could start unpacking all the dirty laundry.  I was knee deep in piles downstairs, while my husband was upstairs going through his own suitcase.  I heard him yell something down the stairs to me about finding a pair of kids’ pj’s in his stuff, and then I heard an unbelievably LOUD series of crashing sounds.  It was so incredibly LOUD, in fact, that it sounded like furniture was being turned upside down.  My husband started yelling “HOLY SHIT!!!” over and over again as I raced up the stairs to see what the hell was happening above me.   

     When I got to the hallway outside our bedroom, I saw shards of glass EVERYWHERE.  The kids were standing in the hall totally freaked out, and my husband shouted for me to freeze since I was barefoot.  I obeyed and stood there in complete and utter awe at the sight before me.  For absolutely no reason whatsoever, the HUGE wall-mounted mirror (we’re talking a sheet of glass that’s 61″ by 52″ big) in our master bath came crashing down and literally exploded all over the freaking place. Hunks of glass had even flown as far as our walk-in closet, which is clear on the other side of our bedroom. My husband looked like he’d just seen a damn ghost and had to have come really close to pissing himself since he’d just been in the bathroom not even a minute before this happened.  I have no doubt that he would’ve been seriously injured had he been in there.  And if our kids had just so happened to be in there?  Well, I shudder at just the mere thought of that.

     We couldn’t help but wonder if someone was trying to send us some kind of signal or something.  I mean, come on, we’d been out of town for nine whole friggin’ days and nothing had happened.  But we’re home not even two hours, and BOOM, all hell breaks loose?  That mirror was installed over five years ago — why would it just all of a sudden come popping off the wall?  Thank goodness the company who did the addition on our house and who hung the mirror in the first place is coming to replace it on Thursday.  In the meantime, I’m going to pray that my kids don’t introduce their newly learned phrase of “HOLY SHIT!!!” on the playground at school, as well as try really hard to forget about how many years of bad luck this could potentially bring us. Does the ginormous size of the glass make it longer than seven years?  I hope not cause I sure as hell don’t need any more dark clouds hanging over me….

Gas Station Gag

     When I was traveling on the road over this past weekend, I certainly had my fair share of gas stations, that’s for damn tootin’ sure. Since I seem to have the world’s smallest bladder, I unfortunately had to make many stops along the way.  I tried to be selective when picking a facility to visit, but sometimes when Mother Nature comes a callin’, you just gotta do what you gotta do, even if that means peeing in a filth-ridden shitcube.  

     There are certain gas stations that I try to avoid at any possible cost, no matter how badly I may need to pee.  For example, if I see any sign whatsoever that a filling station serves some sort of fried chicken or the like, I simply cross my legs and keep on driving. There’s nothing I hate more than walking into a place smelling all good and clean and coming out smelling like the bottom of a freaking deep frier.  That crap gets stuck in your clothes, in your hair, and even in your damn skin. I mean, if I’m gonna smell like a big old bucket of KFC, then I’d at least like to have eaten a friggin’ leg or two.  The absolute worst, though, is when you’ve thoroughly checked the building’s exterior to make sure there’s no indication of fried food being served on the inside, only to have your nostrils bitch-slapped by a blast of stale grease when you walk through the doors.  I think there should be a law that requires such places to post a very visible outdoor sign that says, “We smell like ass.”  

     Once I’ve found a joint that finally seems to be acceptable, it’s anyone’s guess what the conditions of the restrooms are actually gonna be. You know you’re in for a nose-holding-pee-as-fast-as-you-possibly-can-and-get-the-hell-out-of-there experience when you walk into a stall and see shit smeared on the wall behind the toilet.  That’s never a good sign of cleanliness.  And you know you’re gonna be skipping the whole soap process when the only thing around is a lathered up bar on the sink that has a long, black hair stuck to it.  And if you’re lucky enough to find a bathroom that does have a dispenser of soap, you often discover that the only thing to dry your hands with is one of those rolling cloth towel contraptions that’s stuck to the wall, in which case you have to just go with the air dry method cause God only knows what’s been rubbed on that cloth.  

     The gas station bathrooms that totally crack me up are the ones that try to disguise their nastiness by hanging some stupid-looking basket of fake greenery above the mirror or by setting a silk bouquet of flowers by the sink or by hanging a watercolor “painting” of the beach on the wall or by setting out a jar of putrid-smelling potpourri. Look fools, you ain’t kidding nobody with those sad little decorations. It’s still glaringly obvious that you need to get some Ty-D-Bowl cleaner up in there and go to freaking town.  Those toilets don’t clean themselves, ya know.

     If at all possible, I usually prefer to stop at a restaurant instead, since their bathrooms tend to be a little more tolerable.  However, those aren’t always a safe bet either.  It really is a total crapshoot (pun intended) when you’re out on the road.  It’s better to just hope for the best and expect the worst cause finding a clean, non-smelling one is like finding a navy blue sock in a drawer full of black ones.

People Watching

    

     One thing I absolutely love to do is people watch.  I’ve always told my husband that he could just park me on a street corner in the heart of New York City, and I’d be happy as can be for days on end. So when my friends took me out over the weekend to a local bar in my home town, it was THE prime environment for doing just what I love doing.  And the crowd there certainly didn’t disappoint.  There was a smorgasbord of characters on display, let me just tell ya, but the ones who caught my attention the most were the DDD’s, the Dirty Old Bar Fly, and the Drunken Bathroom Lush.

     As my friends and I sat at a corner booth in the front, we couldn’t help but be drawn to the fact that every other girl that walked by seemed to have an unbelievably large rack.  It was as if some plastic surgeon in town had offered a two for one discount or something. I was totally and completely lost in a sea of DDD’s.  One of the blonde ones happened to know my guy friends and came over to say hello. This chick’s DDD’s practically gave me a high five as she approached our table.  I have no clue what the girl’s face even looked like because all I could think about was trying to see if I could balance my glass on those puppies.  After a short conversation about absolutely nothing, blonde DDD went back to join the rest of the boob brigade.

     Then there was the man in his late fifties who was trying WAY too incredibly hard to impress all the DDD’s.  I decided to call him Dirty Old Bar Fly after learning that he was pretty much a staple at every bar in town on the weekends.  He was going with a whole Miami Vice theme, wearing a pink scoop neck t-shirt underneath a blazer, which only made him look even more pathetic.  He also knew my friends and came over to our booth as he was attempting to work the room.  I was immediately drawn to two things as he swaggered our way.  First, his hair was styled in a ridiculously obvious comb-over that looked like he had a dead rat curled up on his head. Second, the fly on his slightly too-tight dress pants was completely wide open.  These two facts sent me into a full-blown giggling fit, and I tried to bury my head in my friend’s shoulder so as to try to camouflage my laughter.  My girlfriend decided she was gonna just march right over and let old boy in on the joke.  We watched in hysterics as she whispered in his ear that he might wanna check himself cause “some air was coming in down below.”  He promptly closed the barn door and strutted his stuff on over to another section of the bar to hit on more of the DDD’s.

     Finally, there was Drunken Bathroom Lush.  You know someone’s three sheets to the wind when she starts telling you how pathetic she is for coming to the bar all by herself.  She was swaying at the mirror trying to primp in the ladies’ room when I went into a stall to pee.  Apparently, she got out her powder compact from her purse and was trying like hell to get my friend to let her put makeup on her. My friend must’ve told her no four times before Lush finally got the hint, but she fumbled in the process and dropped her compact under my stall.  Next thing I knew, this hot mess had crawled on the floor into MY stall to pick up her damn powder while I stood there in amazement in a squat position. I gave her a look of death that said, “There’s a reason why I locked the door, bitch!”  She gave me a glossed-over glance of only minor acknowledgement as she crawled back out again.  We later saw her stumble past our table and leave with some other poor drunken sap.  It would be nothing short of a miracle if either one of them remained awake long enough to even get to first base.

     I could’ve sat in that booth all night long sipping blueberry martinis and watching the freak show play out before me.  The DDD’s, the Dirty Old Bar Fly and the Drunken Bathroom Lush absolutely helped me to forget about all of my problems for a few hours.  It was definitely live entertainment at its very best cause there’s nothing quite like a parade of crazies to liven up a Saturday night.

Wee Wee War

     

     Let’s be honest, nobody likes having to get out of their nice cozy bed and place their hot-crossed buns on a freezing cold ring of porcelain when they’re half asleep.  I hated it as a kid, and I hate it as an adult. Unfortunately, my kids, nor I, can get through an entire night without having to visit the facilities.  Every night when I drag my kids out of bed and usher them down to the toilet, I always remember a little poem my mom used to recite to me.  She’d say, “When I was just a wee, wee tot, my mom would take me from my warm, warm cot, and put me on that cold, cold pot, and make me wee-wee if I had to or not.”

     Now, to be clear, it is no more entertaining to be on the other end of the spectrum having to drag the wee, wee tot from that warm, warm cot. In fact, I despise having to do this dreaded task every friggin’ night.  After schlepping the dog outside and dealing with his nonsense all evening, the last thing I want to do is to lug two lead-footed bodies all the way down the hall and back.  I just want to crawl my overly exhausted ass into my own warm, warm cot.

     I usually start with my daughter first.  She will typically pop right out of bed for me, but she often ends up stopping in her tracks before we even get to the door of her room.  I then take both her hands in mine and guide her down the hallway while I walk backwards and pray that I don’t trip over anything and break my neck.  Since she keeps her eyes closed throughout this entire process, it is my duty to guide her every move.  She does her thing, we wobble back down the hall, and I tuck her back into bed with a kiss.  It’s then time to move on to her next door neighbor, my little drunken sailor.

     My son definitely isn’t doing any popping out of his comfy night time set-up.  His entire body stiffens when I try to awaken him from his slumber.  I have to physically move his stick straight legs off the side of his bed so that they can meet the floor. And it takes me a couple of tugs to finally pull him up to a vertical position because the kid is seriously dead weight. Just like with his sister, I clasp both of his hands in mine and try to maneuver him down the hall as he bounces off the walls.  On more than one occasion, I’ve found myself wondering if this seemingly intoxicated stupor is the result of him hitting up the wine bottle in the fridge before bedtime.  When we finally reach our destination, I lead him over to the can and point that little peeper of his in the correct downward-facing direction. (I learned this vital step from a first-hand experience where he did a little redecorating in the middle of the night with his very own piss paint.) And it never fails that each and every night he ends the show with a big old bang of a fart right in my face.  Yep, that’s the thanks I get for my efforts at keeping their beds dry.

     I look so forward to that glorious moment in time when my kids’ bladders are wise enough to speak up for themselves and start alerting their little brains that it’s time to take a whizz without Mama in the night. Only being responsible for my own bodily waste sounds almost too good to be true.  Until then, I suppose that night after night, I’ll continue to shuttle everyone back and forth to go wee-wee whether they have to or not.

Public Bathrooms/Public Humiliation

Have you ever thought about how awful it would be if there was a really obnoxious announcer in the stall with you at a public bathroom giving a play-by-play account of your toilet tasks?  Well, welcome to my world! Every single time I have to take my kids with me to answer the call of nature in a public place, this is what they do to me.  As is common with most women, I do the old “squat and pee.”  Sometimes, my aim is a bit off and, well, there might just be some sprinkling involved.  My kids have a hay day with this, shouting, “Look, Mommy! You peed on the seat!”  Now, if you’ve read my past blog entries, you know my policy (if you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie).  Of course, I have every intention of carrying out this policy, but the rest of the bathroom crowd does not know this about me, and it doesn’t make me look too good, now does it?  My kids also do not hesitate to loudly identify any unpleasant smells coming from the stalls next to mine.  They’ll shriek, “OH, GROSSSSS! SOMEBODY’S POOPING!”  Now, most people don’t like to poop and tell, so I feel for the person who is, in fact, responsible for the polluted air. But, with kids, there is just absolutely no filter on the words that come out of their mouths.  I’ve thought about stashing a brown paper bag in my purse so that I can just slip it over my head when I have to drag the kids into a public pit-stop with me.  That way, I could just save myself the humiliation of walking out and facing the music after conducting business.  However, as is the case with almost every aspect of parenting, it’s easier to just laugh it off and hold my head up high — or at least try not to make eye contact with anybody on the way out….