A Little Slice of Heaven

Yesterday the hubby and the kids spent the afternoon with the Twins and the Pirates at a spring training game:

I, on the other hand, spent the afternoon lounging in the sun with my good friend, Jose:

It was a little slice of heaven, and I gobbled it right up.


The Hunt for Fun

So when you drive over 1300 miles to have some fun in the warm sun, you don’t really expect to end up doing this:

You might notice a couple of things wrong with this picture.  A.) I’m wearing jeans during the day, which is just all kinds of wrong, yo.  It’s F-L-O-R-I-D-A for crap’s sakes!!!!  It should be illegal to be wearing jeans during the day down here.  It IS the freaking “sunshine state” after all.  B.) We are driving around in the car after having driven around in the car for TWENTY-TWO FLIPPING HOURS!!!  My ass should’ve been protesting that idea up and down and all around.

Perhaps an explanation is needed for the odd photo above.  Waking up to a whopping 68 degree high with mostly cloudy skies while you’re on vacation poses a bit of a problem when you’ve got two very active six year olds to entertain.  So we once again piled into the family fun mobile and headed out in search of something to do.  Our search brought us to none other than the giant red bullseye:

Now the males of the bunch only lasted about ten minutes wondering the infinite number of aisles in this particular Super Target, while my daughter and I could’ve played around in the accessories department for hours.  All the bitching and moaning from the boys, however, won out, and we set out once again on the hunt for more entertainment.

Our next stop was on Captiva Island, where my daughter wanted to look for shells.  And holy shell explosion, did she ever hit the mother load!  We had no other choice but to wear our shoes because shells literally covered every single inch of sand.

We grabbed what we could without being blown away by the chilly winds, but overall, I’d say she did quite well in adding to her already massive collection, don’t ya think?

Maybe the smell of all these stinky-ass shells will help to cover up the inevitable stank of puke that will fill our car on the return trip home to Chicago at the end of the week. Here’s hopin’ anyway….

After a long day of trying to make up for a lost day of swimming in the surf, we decided to find a place to eat for dinner, as did the rest of the 50,000 other spring breakers on the island with us.  Every friggin’ restaurant had over an hour wait for a table, which just doesn’t work when you’ve got two tired and hungry short people with you.  We finally ended up at a teensy tiny Mexican restaurant, where my daughter had the right idea:

What better way to celebrate the end of a long day than bellying up to the old bar?

Just Call Us The Griswolds

Know the great thing about being stuck in a car with your family for 22 hours?  Yeah, me neither.  I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a car by myself for 22 hours, let alone two fighting siblings who have car sickness tendencies and a husband who doesn’t believe in stopping for bathroom breaks. Nevertheless, that’s just what I found myself doing this past weekend as we loaded up the family truckster to make our way down to Florida for spring break.

With the car weighted down with snacks, DVD’s, video games, magazines, and 5,000 bags of luggage, we set off on the 1300 mile trek.  And sure enough, the “Are we there yet?” chants started in before we even made it out of downtown Chicago.  (Ok, so I’ll admit that I might have been a part of the chanting squad too, so don’t judge.)  What the holy hell did we do to pass all that time, you ask?  Well, my son was happier than Tiger Woods at a whore house since he got to play his Nintendo DS for literally eleven straight hours that day.  I don’t know how on earth the kid didn’t develop a permanent crick in his neck from looking down for so long.  My daughter watched movie after movie, while I tweeted away the miles on my phone.  We were all doing a happy dance when we finally stopped for the night in Tennessee.

Surprisingly, the pukes didn’t set in until day two of our journey, when I happened to glance in the back seat to find my daughter looking like Casper the ghost.  I somehow managed to grab a plastic bag just in time to catch her tossed cookies.  And I gotta say that the girl’s a freaking rock star, too, because she downed a McD’s cheeseburger less than thirty minutes later and kept it down the whole rest of the way.  I also shocked myself in somehow managing to read three Us magazines in the car without feeling like I was gonna polish my shoes.

By the time we FINALLY got to Florida, we were all cross-eyed, jelly-legged, and pretty freaking sick of each other, and our car looked like a damn battle field with all the food wrappers, crumbs and water bottles strung about.  But HALLE-FLIPPING-LUJAH!  We had finally reached our destination!  And the thanks we’ve gotten in return for those 22 hours of blood, sweat, and tears?  Two days of clouds and now rain — Mother Nature better get out of her bitchy mood, or I may have to punch a moose in the face.

Things I’ve Learned This Week

** I can light a grill without burning off my eyebrows.

** Chocolate carmel pecan Easter eggs are not safe in this house, even if they’re the size of Texas.

** The dog likes to drink beer.

** Fruit Roll-Ups are to teeth what water is to the Wicked Witch of the West.

** OPI’s “Privacy Please” is a super cool, very natural-looking nail polish color.

** I need a vacation.

** My children should win a medal for their nighttime tip-toeing abilities.

** We should never watch porn before 10 p.m.

** I can sleep with my eyes open.

** The theme for Thursdays is apparently “Drive Like A Jackass Day.”

** I could be lying on the family room floor bleeding to death & no one in my family would notice.

** Little shit-covered Hello Kitty underwear still smell like ass even after they’ve been shoved in a dirty clothes hamper for 2 days. (If only my daughter had learned this as well….)

** I need a vacation.

** “Dancing With the Stars” reminds me of “The Lawrence Welk Show” with sluttier outfits.

** Why just get a Grande when I can get a Venti?

** A polygon is a dead parrot.  (Props to my son, the comedian, for that one.)

** The devil horns pop out of my children’s heads at approximately 7:02 every night.

** Allergies are trying to make the Nucking Futs family swim with the fishes.

** I really need to reiterate the “dump & flush” rule in this house.

** Joe Biden likes to drop the F-bomb whenever possible.

** Did I mention that I need a vacation?

** My family’s trying like hell to get us on an episode of “Hoarders.”

** I am asked 788,946 questions every day.

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

The Sexting Experiment

     A while back, my husband and I got into a discussion about this whole “sexting” phenomenon.  With all the talk about it in the media, we were both saying we felt like we should really see what all the hype was about.  (Perhaps we felt a little left out?) Anyway, we don’t want our kids to think they can EVER EVER get away with this when they’re teenagers, so decided we should give it a go ourselves so as to be better educated <ahem> on the latest trends.  We thought we’d be one step ahead of the game and all.  And let’s just say that my first couple of experiences with it were not quite as “sexy” as I’d had in mind.

     I guess I completely forgot about my whole suck-ass ability to take a decent freaking picture with my iPhone to save my damn life.  I’m always chopping off heads or accidentally moving my hand, creating the world’s most unidentifiable, blurry photo ever known to man-kind.  And to try to take a picture of myself?  Well, that’s a whole other story in and of itself.  I can never figure out how just to angle my arm so that I can actually get myself in the picture.  Even if I stand in front of a mirror, I still somehow manage to eff it up.  So, you can imagine just how jacked up a self-took naughty photo might potentially be.  And that’s just what happened on my first attempt at this sexting thing.

     We were coming back from a weekend road trip when I thought I’d sneak a quick pic of myself on one of our bathroom breaks.  I planned to surprise my husband and give him a little sum’n sum’n to think about on the long, long drive back home.  (What a nice wife I am, right?)  So I was in a stall trying like hell to position my iPhone just so, which turned out to be a damn near impossible task, and I was getting more and more frustrated by the second. Wouldn’t ya know that I picked the skinniest stall in all the friggin’ land?  No matter how I tried to position myself, I could not get the “angle” I wanted. When I finally had it focused, I lost my grip on the phone and gasped in horror as I watched it tumbling toward the toilet.  Like a game of Hot Potato, it bounced from hand to hand before I was eventually able to get a firm hold on it.  Needless to say, my first attempt at sexting was a big, fat failure.

     Never one to give up without a fight, though, I decided to give it another try one day when my hubby was at work.  I figured an impromptu pic from me would surely brighten up a boring old day at the office for him.  It took me about 10,000 tries before I got just the right shot I was going for, but I eventually was able to get what I thought was a pretty damn good image.  I typed a quick text message and hit “Send‘, feeling quite proud of my technology skills for a brief moment.  I was sure that I’d instantly get a return text saying something to the nature of, “Holy shit!  You’re the best wife ever, and I want to shower you with diamonds.”  However, one hour later, I still hadn’t heard a single flipping thing from my husband.  I started to wig out that maybe I’d sent it to the wrong person. Dear God, what if I’d accidentally tweeted it?  Or what if his phone was lying on his desk and someone picked it up and saw more of me than they were ever hoping to?  I frantically searched my phone and sent my hubby four different texts to see if he’d ever received it. Thirty AGONIZING minutes later, I finally heard back from him saying he’d been stuck in a meeting but was pleasantly surprised to find my message.  I told him to enjoy it cause the near heart attack he’d given me had pretty much sucked all the fun out of that sexting experience for me.

     So, for now, I think I’d better just stick with my crooked little action shots of the kids and the dog on the old cell phone.  It’d be just my luck that a very incriminating picture of me would somehow end up in the hands of someone like the coach of my son’s baseball team.  Talk about throwing a guy a curve ball….

A Dad’s Perspective

So recently I began following this guy on Twitter who not only has his hands full with a toddler going through his terrible twos, but he and his wife also gave birth to boy/girl twins in January of this year.  (Yeah, I know, sucks to be him, right?)  Because the infant stage of my own little twinkies’ upbringing is pretty much a blur of a memory, I have been finding his sleep-deprived humor more than just a little funny.  His Twitter name is @havingtwinsnow and you can follow his hilarious blog by clicking on this picture:

I asked @havingtwinsnow if he would write a guest post for my blog, so he could shed some light on the insanity that’s an inevitable part of being thrown into the world of twin parenting.  I thought it would be a cool switch to see a male’s perspective on trying like hell to juggle everything.  And good God almighty, did he ever deliver.  Here’s what his brilliantly crazy brain came up with:


Pretty much the first thing you notice as a new parent of multiples is that you are now the center of attention wherever you are in public.  And if you weren’t aware of your awesome powers, wipe the sleep out of your eyes, the puke from your shoulder and the dried puke from your cheeks that was put there from the wet puke on your shoulder which you’ve learned to ignore unless you can feel it actually ooze down your arm. With great medical, food and diaper bills comes great fucking responsibility!

How? You ask. I have no clue. But here is at least one situation that while completely ridiculous, will state the ignorance of some upright humans while allowing for a few laughs from everyone else.

When you are out at a family function or birthday party, you can pretty much say anything and those family members/friends will believe everyfuckingthing you say. Just this past weekend I was sitting next to my wife, feeding a twin alongside her, or “tweeding” if you’re a kitchy prick. We were operating in our normal manner, communicating with grunts, clicks and whistles, and spastic head movements, when a mother of one since grown and moved out son (who has now apparently moved back in) asked us flatly:

“How do you do it?”

I glanced at my wife and gave her the sign that I would take this one, which is a handless gesture for oral sex involving my tongue striking the side of my cheek which to a fellow immature friend would possibly look like a penis! In my mouth!

So I answered as flatly as I could.

“Three things actually:

1.) A schedule that we dare not impinge upon or suffer its wrath upon our very souls.

2.) Coffee, which is the nectar of the gods and we are actually researching to discern if it is, in fact, Jesus’s semen.

And 3.) Anal sex. Lots and lots of ass fucking. It is really quite remarkable the amount of butt humping I’ve managed to squeeze in in just a few weeks.”

I then playfully tilted my head to the right, removed the bottle from my kid’s gullet and proceeded to burp her over my shoulder gently.

Blank stares from all around the room greeted my rapidly blinking eyes.

It appears that using the term “anal sex” is a show stopper. The entire room stopped what it was doing and looked my way. So rather than curl up into a ball, I got technical.

“See, the amount of strain on Julie’s vagina and uterus was so severe during her twin pregnancy that anal intercourse was really the only way to experience any semblance of sexual pleasure. To go even longer without coitus would probably generate so much marital strain that we would grow to hate each other, and right now, and particularly at 3:16 am every morning, we’re all we have. We need each other. And if that means I put it straight up her pooper, by golly, that’s what I’ll do.”

Still more silence.

As I went to open my mouth for more bullshit, my lovely wife elbowed me in the kidney. Monologue over.

The conversation around us gradually kicked back up, but it was odd, we were never made to feel as if we were disgusting or smelled of the shit of the bull that I was allowing to spew from my mouth. No, these people BOUGHT IT! I wasn’t being disgusting to them, no; they perceived what I was saying as me allowing a brief, truthful snapshot, although pornographic, into our interesting lives!

The pity you receive as a seemingly exhausted parent of multiples allows you to say the most disgusting things without the fear of reprisal, judgment or backlash!  You should really try it!

Identical Vs. Fraternal


     As a parent of twins, I’ve had to deal with my fair share of oddball questions throughout the years.  Some of them are legitimate, and some of them are really quite obnoxious (for example, “Are they from fertility drugs?”  Like it’s anyone’s freaking business how many needles I had to stick in my ass for three friggin’ years!)  By far, though, the most frequently asked question has always been, “Are they identical or fraternal?”  And let me just tell ya how many people there are out there who are completely and totally mixed up about this very concept.  So, rather than singling out those of you who fall into that dazed and confused category (it’s ok, believe me, you’re not alone), let’s have a little review:

     Identical twins form when a fertilized egg splits.  Fraternal twins occur when two different eggs are fertilized by two different sperm.  Same sex twins can be either identical or fraternal; however, different sex twins can ONLY be fraternal.  This tends to be what totally throws people off.  Just because a set of twins looks alike does not mean that they are IDENTICAL.  Just stop and think about what identical means for a second.  According to dictionary.com, the definition of “identical” is:  “being the very same.”  So, if you have a set of boy/girl twins, why would it be IMPOSSIBLE for them to be identical?  Still not getting it?  Ok, then, what does a boy have that a girl most definitely does not have?  Ding ding ding!  We have a weiner, I mean,a winner!  So, now that we’ve cleared that all up, let me tell you about a certain confrontation I found myself in at Target one time way back when.

     I had my son and daughter in their massive limousine-sized double stroller in the checkout lane, just trying to do my thing and get the hell out of there without a major meltdown from the babies or from me.  Unfortunately, though, I got stuck with Loose-Lipped Linda the cashier who wanted to ooh and ah over the double dose of fun coming through her lane.  She asked a bazillion different questions, ending with the all-too-popular, “So, are they identical or fraternal?”  I tried to keep my cool by smiling and politely telling her that since they were boy/girl twins, they could only be fraternal. However, she felt it her duty to go into a whole long story about how she had a friend who most certainly had identical boy/girl twins.  Again, I calmly smiled and told her that they could not be identical.  Dipshit was just not having it though and continued to argue with me that these kids were by all means identically alike.  The sleep-deprived bitch in me took over that point, so I looked her straight in the eye and said, “If one child has a penis and one child has a vagina, there’s NO WAY they can be exactly the same now can they?”  That finally shut her ass up and I could see the squeaky wheels in her underworked brain trying very hard to process this new information.  

     So, in the future, if you run into someone who has boy/girl twins, you can go ahead and save yourself from asking a question that doesn’t even need to be asked.  Nobody would dare question the difference between a taco and a hot dog, right?  All it takes is just a little bit of brain power to determine that the two are, in fact, very very different.  (And might I add, thank God for that!)