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???? **

In The Doghouse

It never ceases to amaze me how little it takes to entertain my kids.  Be it a plain old cardboard box or an empty freaking roll of toilet paper, and they’ll go to town with it for hours on end.  Lately, though, it seems they’ve decided that the dog crate is where the party’s at.

Now I have no earthly idea what first possessed my son to decide to crawl into the crate, but it’s surprisingly become an everyday ritual.  He plays video games, bounces rubber balls, and basically just chills out in there.  He’s also talked his twin sister into joining him in the dog’s den from time to time.  And if I call and call and can’t find him anywhere in the house?  Well, I’ve learned the hard way that I’ll more than likely discover that he’s hiding in the damn crate.  And would you believe the boy even attempted to hold a playdate in there?  Luckily, though, his friend wasn’t really down with the whole idea.  I ended up having to draw the line the other night at naked chilling in the crate, however.  A freshly showered kid in the buff most certainly does NOT belong in the 4×3 stank of the pooch.

And the dog isn’t really sure just what the hell to make of this new-found craze.  He stares at the kids through the bars like he’s been burglarized or something.  I’m sure he’s confused to shit about this sudden interest in his little lair.  The kids must have sensed his uneasiness because I heard them discussing whether or not they should make reservations with the pup in the future.

Now you’re probably thinking that I’ve just discovered the secret to success since my children are happily entering a lockable box out of their own free will, right?  And if I moved the crate in front of the t.v., well then I’d have THE definition of a live-in babysitter.  Slip some food in through the cracks, and voila!  Believe you me, I’ve thought long and hard about this and the many potential benefits it could produce.  Unfortunately, though, my children like to talk.  And I don’t think it would go over so well at school if they told their teachers that they spent the night in the dog crate.

Things I’ve Learned This Week

** There are seven days in a week?  Really?

** A boomerang does NOT belong on the kitchen counter.

** Nor does it belong on the toilet.

** My neighbor’s name is Pete, not Joe.  (Maybe that’s why he’s given me weird looks all these years?)

** I should stop buying dog biscuits & just give the dog what he really wants — dryer sheets.

** Ice cream makes everything better.

** Sunscreen is EXTREMELY important.  If only I’d learned this as a teenager….

** All I need is a whip and some elephants & this house would truly be a three-ring circus.

** Fitted sheets can kiss my ass — they’re just not meant to be folded.

** My kids STILL haven’t figured out that I’m not a morning person.

** I need to wear earplugs until at least 9 a.m.

** The male version of camel toe is called moose knuckle.

** The skateboards on my front porch are apparently permanent fixtures.

** My kids have no clue how to get toothpaste on their damn toothbrushes.

** I’m allergic to housework.

** There’s a whole forest of trees in my son’s backpack from all the homework papers he’s failed to turn in.

** Sometimes there IS crying in baseball.

** Bedtime is a foreign concept to me anymore.  < yawn >

** Parenting can break your heart.

** I should avoid Checkout Lane 5 at the grocery store at all possible costs.

** I can’t remember anything anymore.

** Crap, I forgot what I was gonna say.

** If stupid is as stupid does, then I am a complete idiot.

** Shit NEVER EVER gets done around here.

** Despite what I might think, God does not give me more than I can handle.

<<  WHAT DID YOU LEARN THIS WEEK??????  >>

Things I’ve Learned This Week

** Nobody ever rings our doorbell until I’m in the shower.

** Satan himself climbed on our roof and dropped a big germ turd down our chimney.

** Cabin fever can make you have deep, meaningful conversations with your ceiling fans.

** Eggs do not go in the pantry.

** Milk does not either.

** I am not the dog whisperer.

** Brangelina are turning Shiloh into a cross-dresser.

 ** My daughter hates to puke almost as much as I do.

** Unfortunately, toothpicks do not hold my eyelids open.

** I have a dog nose in my ass at least 15 out of the 24 hours in each day.

** If there’s a mud puddle anywhere in sight, my son will not only hunt it down but also do a cannonball into it.

** I will never see my kitchen counter again.

** Kate Gosselin cares more about her dancing shoes than she does her kids.

** I no longer know what day of the week it is, and I’m too tired to care.

** Not even Google knows why girls don’t have penises, at least according to my son, anyway.

** I’m way overdue for highlights — the Pamela Anderson look’s not working so well for me.

** “Pimple” is a really funny word if you’re six years old.

** I see dead people.

** I need to put an eternal lockdown on “Calliou” & “Sid the Science Kid” from EVER popping onto our t.v. screens.

** Patience is a virtue, and I’m not very virtuous anymore.

** I should REALLY be paid by the hour.

** Despite what I may think, God does not give me more than I can handle.

Unlucky Streak

     

     Sometimes I honestly think my life is an on-going audition for “Survivor”.  And last week would have undoubtedly sealed the deal for me to be a shoe-in cast member on that show.  It was as if someone was playing a cruel joke on me to see if I’d finally shatter into a billion tiny pieces.  Did I break a mirror I don’t know about or did a black cat run in front of me?  Cause clearly, bad luck is totally trying to get the best of me.  But, miracles DO happen, cause I’m still standing on two intact legs with two intact arms to hold my Advil and my Chardonnay.

     It was bad enough that the week started off with my son being ridiculously ill.  But then the damn dog had to give me yet another reason to campaign against getting a dog for a pet.  On Friday I took him to the vet for his pre-ball chopping bloodwork and happened to mention to the technician that his eyes looked red to me. Upon further investigation, she informed me that the jackass had pink eye — yes, pink eye!  Who the hell knew that a freaking dog could get pink eye?!  After struggling to keep him from jumping on the other dogs while she retrieved his $45 eyedrops, she told me that I’d have to put the drops into each eye twice a day for five days (because I don’t have anything else going on in my life but to try and pin down a fifty pound beast twice a day).  I left the office with a massive headache, a leash burn on my palm, and a strong desire to hitchhike down to Mexico.

**Did I mention that my husband had been out of town all friggin’ week??!!**

     But the fun didn’t end there.  Oh, no sir-ee Bob, it most certainly did not!  On Saturday night, I dropped my daughter off at a “sleep under” party at her friend’s house where they do all the fun things of a slumber party without the actual “slumber” part.  When I went to pick her up, I could instantly tell by the look on her face that something was terribly wrong.  She was pale as a ghost and covered with sweat and immediately started saying that she wanted to go home.  She began crying as she put on her coat, and my motherly instinct told me that puke was in my imminent future.  

     I talked her into going into the half bath as all the other moms were coming to retrieve their children, and the instant I shut the door, she hurled all over the place.  And the force of the hurl was so great that it caused her to pee her pants as well.  The poor kid was so humiliated to have this happen in the presence of her friends, so I was trying my very best to comfort her and tell her that this happens to the best of us.  I couldn’t help but notice, however, that my options for cleaning up this ginormous mess were limited to a half roll of toilet paper.  I. Was. Totally. Screwed. 

     I could hear all the hustle and bustle of moms and kids outside the door and didn’t want my daughter to be further embarrassed, so I casually poked my head out to look for the birthday girl’s mom.  I was able to quietly request some paper towels and any other cleaning supplies she might be able to provide without shining a massive spotlight on the unbelievable shit that had just gone down behind that door.  I scrubbed like a madwoman as fast as I could since my daughter desperately (and justifiably) just wanted to get the hell out of dodge.  I have no doubt that I probably left a splatter or two behind, but I did the best I could under the circumstances.

**By the way, you DO remember that my husband had been out of town ALL stinkin’ week, don’t you?** 

     So, if my thong is on backwards, my hair’s a dead ringer for Medusa, or I’m driving in the wrong lane, you’ll either sympathize with me or you can bite me.  It’s been yet another week from HELL, and my limit’s been reached.  I believe I’ve more than earned a trip to the spa as well as a sushi dinner, so listen up, hubby!  When you finally return, you better hike up your skirt and hop in the ring cause this bad luck’s goin’ down, baby.  

Stress Reliever

     This week has not necessarily been my favorite.  Between the hubby being out of town, the dog shitting his brains out, and the kids fighting like they’re on “Jersey Shore”, I am a little on edge.  My mood has teetered between wanting to cry at one moment and wanting to scream at the next.  When I see happy people on the street, I can’t help but want to spit at them.  And that is why I found the video below to be so relatable.  I wish I would’ve thought to relieve my stress like this genius of a guy.  Check it out:

Survival of the Single Mama

     

     I gotta tip my hat and bow down to all the single mamas/papas out there.  That, my friends, is no easy task and should be rewarded with high-fives, knuckle-bumps, and all-expenses paid vacations.  I honestly don’t know how on earth you do it without absolutely cracking the eff up.  I have only done it for short bursts of time and inevitably feel like I need a straight jacket to contain my temptation to go absolutely medieval on everyone around me.

     Since my husband had to travel for business the past couple of nights, the shit naturally decided it was time to hit the fan.  First off, my son had the amazing wherewithall to come down with a blazing ear infection.  The poor kid was literally up all night on Monday night with ear pain, so the whole week got off to a big whopping sleep-deprived bang. Then, the dog decided to take four steps back, even though we’d taken three steps forward, and wake up crying multiple times in the night.  (Have I ever told you how much I LOVE being woken up in the night to search for dog shit with a flashlight?!) Then, to top it all off, my daughter must’ve felt left out, because she, too, felt the need to contract an ear infection to keep up with her brother.  After two trips to the doctor and two trips to the pharmacy, we are more than good to go up in here, thank you very much.  

     And as a result, this mama here is at the absolute end of her limit.  My patience is non-existent and my attention span parallels that of a two year old.  So, it is probably pretty apparent how well multiple rounds of jack assinine questioning is going to go over with my walking time-bomb of a brain.  Kids, even if I knew how many flippin’ springs were in my running shoes, what car tires were made of, or how fast my bike could go down a hill, I’m not sure I’d even have the energy to tell you.  In addition, I honestly must’ve heard my son mutter the word “Mommy” no less than four hundred times last night.  I was seriously contemplating changing my name to Queenie or even Bob just for a change of freaking pace.  As much as I tried, I was completely unable to go to my happy place.  I seemed to be stuck indefinitely in Crazy Town.  I promised myself as I was going to sleep last night that I was going to wake up in a better mood and have a good day even if it killed me.

     However, the dog taking a big sunrise dump on the rug certainly didn’t get things moving in exactly the direction I had planned.  Then, as we were finally walking out the door to head to school, my daughter frantically announced that she had another Math worksheet to do for homework.  This just so happened to be the same worksheet that I had asked both kids about multiple times last night, and no one claimed it to be theirs.  Since my daughter insisted on doing it, we worked on about half of it and then raced off to school.  When I went in to tell her teacher that we didn’t have time to finish it, the teacher looked at me like I had three eyes.  Turns out that they didn’t even have homework at all, and that my daughter had actually done my son’s homework.  Well, that is just craptabulous.  I’ll just add that to the list of other mommy fails that I’ve been accumulating lately.

     If the hubs doesn’t get his tush back home soon, I’m gonna be so delirious that I might just be feeding dog food to the kids and Pop Tarts to the dog.  I am in survival mode here, people, just flying by the seat of my pants.  I couldn’t have a meaningful conversation with anyone right now even if I tried.  My brain may be on vacation, but it’s my body that needs the get-away even more.

It’s War!

     

     The time has come, people.  My dukes are up, and I’m ready and willing to go to war once again with our nut-loving, bushy-tailed neighbors.  I’m talking about the over-populated clan of squirrels that mistakenly think they rule the roost around here.  They have made it very clear that they have a personal vendetta against me, and I refuse to go down without a fight.  These deranged and incredibly ballsy squirrels here have been pushing my buttons for several years now and have earned themselves a number one slot on my all-time shitlist.

     This whole rivalry began when we moved into our house six years ago.  What Florida is to retired folks is what our neighborhood is to squirrels.  With all the ginormous oak and elm trees around here, these bastards are truly living the high life, running rampant and stealing everything in sight. After we’d been living in the house for about a week, I kept on hearing scratching noises in the walls and insisted that something was living in them.  My husband thought I was smoking crack until he was awakened at four in the morning one day to a whimpering sound coming from the wall on his side of the bed. After some Sherlock Holmes type of investigating, we discovered that a massive hole had been chewed in the soffit of our roof.  The little shits were using the ceiling above my son’s bedroom as their friggin’ front door to Partyville.  Since we live in a very tree-hugging community, we had to hire a pest control company to come and set up traps on the roof.  (I would’ve preferred to pick them off with a BB gun, but that’s just me.)  When all was said and done, we ended up paying these money grubbers over $1000 to capture and release the whopping SEVENTEEN squirrels that had infested our walls.  I don’t know about you, but I can think of about a million different ways I’d rather spend that kind of money.  So, as you can hopefully understand, we did not necessarily get off on the right foot with this particular rodent population.

     And from that moment on, it was as if a hit was put out on our family by these acorn a-holes to avenge the “disappearance” of seventeen of their crew members.  They made it their personal mission to terrorize the holy hell out of our family.  They chewed through the seats of two of our strollers that were left on the front porch.  They dug up countless pots of flowers to bury their stupid nuts.  They nibbled a huge gaping hole in the kids’ plastic picnic table.  They even gnawed through our trash cans in the alley to rip our trash apart, causing us to purchase aluminum cans as a result.  But the biggest kick in the ass was when they decided to mess with our Halloween pumpkins.

     The traditional jack-o-lantern carving ritual is something that is pretty sacred in this household.  The kids really get into it, even stripping off their shirts so they can get all down and dirty with the pumpkin guts.  The finished product is always a sight to be seen. However, the degenerate squirrels around here seem to think a decorative pumpkin is their own personal meal ticket.  They absolutely go to freaking town ripping them to shreds.  It breaks my kids’ hearts, as well as my own, when their beloved masterpieces are turned into something like this:

     And we have tried everything from spraying Pledge to sprinkling cayenne pepper on the pumpkins to deter them, but nothing seems to work.  It’s like they see these preventatives as special seasonings or something, since they still continue to completely devour them.  We have learned the hard way that the Nucking Futs Family simply cannot display our jack-o-lanterns until the actual day of Halloween, which really sucks for getting in the spirit of things.  You can only imagine what pitiful-looking pumpkins we’re left to choose from by that point of the season.

     I’ve decided that I need to hire my own private hit man to settle this bitch once and for all.  Hey, wait, I do believe we just recently added a new member to our little anti-squirrel coalition.  And, coincidentally, I hear that terriers LOVE to hunt squirrels.  And, hey, who am I to stop someone from doing something they LOVE to do? Look out you little furry-footed fiends — there’s a new sheriff in town, and his name is Wrigley.  Woof!

Failing Miserably

     

     Well, I guess I’ll just go ahead and address the big fat elephant in the room.  Maybe nobody around here wants to admit it, but I seem to be really sucking ass at my job lately.  I’m trying to juggle way too many balls at once, and who am I kidding?  I don’t even know how to freaking juggle!  So, yes, this is my pity party, so pull up a seat cause you’re all invited.    

     The arrival of our literal little son of a bitch has thrown a big wrench in my ability to get a grip on anything around here.  He takes up so much of my time that I feel like I’m neglecting the kids, who are by far WAY higher up in the pecking order of importance.  I feel like I’m constantly telling them that we’ll have to play that game later or read this book another time so I can deal with the dog.  I’m totally sucking in my role as entertainer.  

     In addition, I’ve also been like a giant road block for my kids’ brain cells.  I totally missed the boat last week on an entire week’s worth of spelling activities for school. Yep, Mama Jackass somehow overlooked a whole list of homework assignments and didn’t even discover this little brain fart until over the weekend.  Oopsy daisy. Luckily, they were just at-home activities that kids were supposed to do each night with their parents, but still, I should’ve been more on top of my game.  

     Then, there’s the whole issue of trying to tame the Tazmanian Devil.  Since I was at my wit’s end with the pooch all last week, the hubs spent a lot of time trying to teach him how to not be a maniac over the weekend.  I made sure to carefully watch his technique so that I could continue with it once he went back to work on Monday. So why is it then that the dog refused to do ANYTHING I asked him to do even though I was doing the exact same thing my husband was doing over the weekend? Does he have something against me or what?  I swear if he had a middle finger, I know for certain that he’d totally be flipping me off.  The dog is clearly trying to tell me to eff off.  All he does is bite me and step in his own shit.  

     Then there’s my inability to be even somewhat of a semi-pleasant wife lately.  I am so frustrated and exhausted by the end of the day that I end up falling asleep by the time my tush finally makes that long-awaited contact with the couch.  I even turned down my husband’s offer to take me on a date over the weekend and opted to order out sushi instead.  How lame am I?   Yeah, I’m just a barrel of fun these days — being with me lately is only slightly more fun than a sharp stick in the eye.  Good God, am I turning into Kate Gosselin?!  

     So, to summarize my efforts around here:  kids = failing, dog = failing, husband = failing.  My report card looks pretty pathetic, don’t ya think?  I am flunking out big time with everything and everybody.  I gotta snap outta this and get back in the driver’s seat cause I am not a fan of spinning out of control.  It makes me dizzy.

Changing of the Guard

     

     I know I may complain about him being sloppy and about how much he procrastinates, but I gotta hand it to my hubby for steppin’ up to the plate this past weekend.  He must’ve realized that I was at the absolute end of my very frazzled rope with the new puppy and him being out of town ALL last week.  It was WAY more stress than I had envisioned, and I realize now in hindsight that the timing could not have been worse. I was like a shaken up bottle of Diet Coke just waiting to blow my top.

     Since I was so sleep deprived, the hubs took it upon himself to get up with both the dog and the kids at the first sign of day on both Saturday and Sunday.  He even herded them all to the backyard so the house would stay nice and quiet for me.  Good man. Mama needed her sleep, especially after that little rendezvous with Benadryl (necessary for the itchy bumps the dog hair caused me) and one too many glasses of Chardonnay.  He also spent a significant chunk of time trying to work on training the dog, only to come to the same conclusion as me — that we have, in fact,  purchased an insane baby alligator.  

     Now, that’s not to say that everything was all sunshine and rainbows.  The kids, of course, decided to make up for lost time with Daddy and show him how well they’ve learned to let things go in one ear and straight out the other.  I could hear his frustration mounting over having to repeat the same damn thing about two hundred and fifty thousand times.  Of course, I just sat back and observed because we all know that payback’s a bitch.  I was so glad that he was getting a little dose of just what all he’d been missing — one big happy, albeit apeshit, family.  

     I had to just overlook the fact that my kids were running around the backyard still wearing their pj’s well into the afternoon.  And I had to just bite my tongue and turn the other way when I saw that the pile of crap on the kitchen counter may very well have rivaled the Sears Tower in height.  And I had to just let it roll off my shoulders when my husband came back from the grocery store with quite possibly the cheapest toilet paper ever manufactured — seriously, we might as well just wipe our asses with sandpaper.  None of these things could overshadow the fact that the man was giving me a much needed breather.  I was so beyond grateful to have any kind of break whatsoever from the constant chaos that has become my life.

     My gratitude was only compounded after I ran into a friend of mine on Sunday who was complaining about her lazy husband.  She was out trying to run errands and said that he was literally calling her every three to four minutes to tell her to come home and feed the kids lunch.  She was on the verge of tears as she told me that she was really sorry but she needed to run.  I stood there in awe at the audacity of the whole ordeal.  Could the dude really not slop together a flippin’ pb&j for the kids?  Seriously, any moron can do that. Thank God my husband can not only make a mean pb&j, but he can also fire up some chicken nuggets in the microwave like nobody else’s business.  Now, he may not sail the boat exactly like I do, but at least he keeps it afloat long enough to give the captain a little catnap.