Things I’ve Learned This Week

** My body didn’t get the memo that I don’t do sick.

** I am not bringing sexy back.

** I’ve done so much blowing (of my nose) that I have a whole new appreciation for vacuum cleaners & hookers.

** Glitter glue should be outlawed.

** Taking a shower is A LOT of work.

** Brown paint spilled on the rug looks like smeared shit. (Ask the dog how I learned this.)

** The DMV is giving ANYBODY a license these days.

** Boogers do not dissolve in bath water (thanks, Daughter, for pointing this out.)

** Martha Stewart has WAY too much time on her hands. (Hello! The woman made chalk on Wednesday.)

** My son has changed his name to “Pepsi”.

** Our family room looks like a frat house, minus the keg (unfortunately).

** Big decisions shouldn’t be made under the influence of DayQuil.

** It’s best to use a hot pad when taking something out of the oven.

** Facebook thinks I need dating advice. WTF?!

** The early bird doesn’t even come close to catching the damn worm.

** I really need to become friends with a sushi chef.

** A ninety year old man with no teeth could eat faster than my son.

** Dark chocolate brightens up any old lunch.

** I need to make a mental note to make more mental notes.

** The dog is just like Kathy Lee Gifford — loves to hear himself bark.

** Automated phone systems make fire shoot out my ears.

** Our pantry’s organization (or lack thereof) is hazardous to the health of anyone who opens its door.

** My kids are allergic to sleep.

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


Sick Days, My Ass

Sick days? Yeah, unfortunately, those don’t really exist in my line of work. So, when I go down for the count like I have the past couple of days, it’s just not pretty. Not pretty at all. Nope, I still had to pick my snot-nosed self up and motor on with the program whether I liked it or not. And even though my husband tried his very best to help out in getting the kids off to school yesterday and today, I still found myself having to perform my motherly duties even as I lay at death’s door.

My very nice, loving, thoughtful, considerate, helpful (do you get that I’m sucking up here?) husband insisted that he’d handle the morning routine so I could stay in bed and rest. Very sweet, right? However, Papa Nucking Futs has his own idea of how the AM schedule should go, and it’s not at all like mine. One crucial difference? I allow for one t.v. show while they eat, while he decided that the boob tube should remain off during breakfast. That’s like taking a freaking cigarette out of a chain smoker’s hands. As you can imagine, this did NOT bring about happy results. There was screaming, there was crying, and there was lots of counting to 3 going on below me as I “rested” in bed. I cringed as I listened to him laying down the law with threats of Wii priveleges being revoked and playdates being cancelled. I finally dragged myself out of bed to explain the whole “picking your battles” part of parenting to him. Nevertheless, the t.v. still remained off.

I then heard the sounds of fumbling around in the pantry and realized that my husband wouldn’t have a clue what to pack for snacks or what to put in my son’s lunch (since the kid refuses to EVER eat the school’s food). So I once again slithered out of bed to tell him what to pack and where to find it. (And apparently, I forgot to mention that my son needs something to drink, so the poor kid went thirsty at lunch.) My husband fussed at me to get back in bed and rest, since he had everything “under control. ” (Ha!)

When I climbed back into bed, I breathed a very nasally sigh of relief to FINALLY hear everyone packing up to leave. But then the front door slammed shut at least two hundred times as they all ran in and out of the house, the dog went crazy barking at all the madness, and the kids screamed as loud as their lungs would allow to their friends walking down the sidewalk.  It was seriously like a damn circus had rolled into town.

Thank goodness I could “rest” in bed though.  I reminded myself over and over and over again that it was the thought that counts, right?  Even still, though, one point was abundantly clear — a mom’s work is never ever finished.

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.


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.


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.


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.


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.

Hubby + Hangover = Worthless to Me

So my husband is in the process of planning a Vegas bachelor party for his best friend this summer. And if history has taught me anything, it’s that I shouldn’t plan for him to be good for a damn thing the day after these testosterone-fueled festivities. You see, the last time he planned a little manhood soiree like this, he was more than just a little successful in earning his rightful place in the proverbial doghouse.

It was probably about ten years ago when my hubby was put in charge of planning a last hurrah for one of his soon to be married friends. We were living in a condo at the time and had just bought our first house, which needed MAJOR renovations. He assured me that he wasn’t gonna get too wild and crazy at the bachelor party since he knew that we needed to meet our contractor at the new house early the next morning. (Ok, people, you can stop your freaking snickering cause I actually bought into this shit and believed this ridiculously impossible promise!) When I woke up the next day to find him still passed out to the world, though, I knew that our day of productivity was going to be anything but.

Turns out that Mr. Promise To Take It Easy decided to get even more toasted than the actual bachelor himself. I mean, we’re talkin’ quite possibly the world’s WORST hangover on the record books. I was having none of it, though, since we had a schedule, and by God, we were sticking to it! I told him to buck up and pop some Advil cause we had appointments and were knockin’ out that to-do list whether he liked it or not. He cringed and moaned, but I threw his ass in the car, and we headed over to our new under-construction haven.

I was deep into a conversation with our contractor when I happened to notice that my hungover hubby had completely disappeared on me. I excused myself to hunt him down, only to find him bent over the disconnected toilet in the backyard puking his ever-loving guts out. I nearly died of embarrassment imagining what our new neighbors must think of the white trash couple who’d just moved into their hood. I was sure that we would most certainly NOT be receiving any welcome baskets full of muffins and cookies.

We decided to head to the Home Depot before we were completely blacklisted from the neighborhood, but the very minute we got to the cabinet section there, my renovating partner went MIA once again. Luckily, I didn’t have to wonder too long about his whereabouts though, since I immediately heard his obnoxiously distinct sounds of hurling coming from the vicinity of the restrooms. I honestly could have killed him right then and there and had visions of just what I’d like to do with the jigsaw I had passed back in Aisle 10. Needless to say, we didn’t get a whole lot accomplished that day.

So if history decides to repeat itself this year, my hubby better be good and ready to dig himself out of any holes in which he finds himself in Vegas. I will most certainly NOT be sweet-talking Mike Tyson if his pet tiger goes missing, nor will I be rescuing my sunburned husband from a deserted roof top. Nope, he’s all on his own. Most importantly, however, I will not be planning any major projects right after his little weekend boy bash. Instead, I will be planning MY OWN little Sin City girls gala cause turnabout’s fair play and payback’s a bitch.  😉

My Shower With Cujo

If the Mayans were actually correct in predicting this 2012 apocalypse thing, I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that I will be buck naked in the shower when it all goes down. You see, I am ALWAYS buck naked in the shower when the shit hits the fan in my house. It’s like a damn chain reaction as soon as I step under that stream of water, and then… BAM! All hell breaks loose right then and there. And wouldn’t ya know, my goat of a dog was more than happy enough to prove this very point to me yet again one day last week.

I had just lathered up my hair when my furry little nemesis came slinking around the bathroom door. I almost gasped out loud when I saw him because the dude literally had foam dripping down from his beard. Sweet baby Jesus, I was scared. My mind instantly flashed back to a few hours before when I found him in the back yard eating something that he clearly shouldn’t be eating. And when I unsuccessfully tried to pry open his mouth to find out what the hell he was chomping, I discovered the tip end of a squirrel’s tail not far from his feet. At the time, I didn’t know whether to be horrified or electrified that he’d potentially murdered one of those bushy-tailed bastards who are on my eternal shit-list. However, when I saw that he was actually foaming at the mouth now, I confirmed that I was, in fact, horrified. I feared that none other than Cujo himself was in the bathroom with me.

I gotta admit that I was more than just a little nervous to finally step out of the shower. I tried like hell to turn up the sweet talk as I slowly placed one wet leg on the bath mat outside the glass door, expecting this rabified beast to gnaw my leg right down to the bare bone. Surprisingly though, he barely gave me so much as even a second look before he laid down on the tile floor. I glanced around and saw piles of foamy spit all throughout our bedroom and all down the hall and questioned whether to call Animal Control or our vet. I mean, clearly, I was about to be eaten alive, right?

Thank God I have those eyes in the back of my head that I always tell my kids about cause they sure came in handy as I cleaned up all the spit piles throughout the house. There was no way in hell I was turning my back on this unpredictable wild dog for even one second. Noooooo, no, I was gonna tell him what a “Nice doggy” he was every step of the friggin’ way is what I was gonna do. Much to my surprise, though, the big old lug just laid there without even attempting to move and peacefully watched me wipe up all of his messes. I wasn’t attacked or even close to being mauled to pieces.  What the hell?!  Was I on Candid Camera again?

I never found out for sure if the dog really did eat a squirrel, and luckily, the foaming of the mouth deal just seemed to be a passing thing.  My husband says that dogs sometimes do that when they get all wound up (yet another similarity between men and dogs?)  I tried very hard to not make any connections between me showering and the dog foaming at the mouth (Ewww!), but nonetheless, I was so relieved that I didn’t have to warn the neighbors to lock up their kids from my rabid dog.  I’m not thinking THAT would win me any favorite neighbor awards….

Things I’ve Learned This Week

** It’s not a good idea to go for a run after a Brazilian bikini wax. You should just trust me on this.

** Kids need to eat every day.  Who knew?

** I’ve forgotten which way is up and which way is down.

** Mother Nature is having a jolly old time screwing with those of us who thought it was actually Spring.

** Avocados rock my world.

** I am a human coat rack, according to my kids anyway.

** The bags under my eyes have taken up permanent residence & will now be referred to as Lucy & Ethel.

** Diet Coke is my co-pilot.

** Douchebags are just crawling outta the woodworks.  The latest?  Steven Seagal.

** My dog prefers thong underwear (to eat, not to wear).

** I will soon be pancake pavement since NOBODY wants to stop for pedestrians anymore.

** Smoke alarm batteries die at approximately 3:33 a.m.

** My son may be the longest story teller in the history of story tellers.

** There’s a wocket in my pocket.

** I will never speak true Starbucks lingo.

** “F’ing-A” is my go-to phrase when I stub my toe.

** I need to win the lottery. Like now.

** Scotch tape disappears as quickly in my house as wine.

** I am apparently not smarter than a first grader.

** Goldfish crackers are best enjoyed in the nude.

** Getting off a mountain bike is definitely not one of my strengths. (See black & blue left kneecap).

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

What’s Your Name Again?

I’ve decided that my life would be a hell of a lot easier if everyone just wore name tags. It’s sad but very true that I can’t seem to remember anybody’s damn name anymore for anything in this world. It absolutely blows my mind to think that I used to be a teacher and responsible for knowing a whole classroom full of kids’ names. I couldn’t do that now if my life depended on it! Somewhere in the process of pushing out two screaming children from my body, I apparently also pushed out my memory.

Any time I meet someone new and they tell me their name, I try very hard to absorb this information for later use. However, the next time I come in contact with the person, I inevitably draw a complete blank when it comes to saying hello. The wheels are spinning wildly in my head, but all that seems to come out is a, “Hey there……YOU!” It’s extremly embarrassing, and I used to play it off like it was nothing. Now I just openly admit that I suck with names and blame it on motherhood stripping away my brain cells.

The worst is when I can’t remember people’s names who’ve told me over and over again what their names are. I’ve done this with several moms from school who clearly know my name, but my memory bank is completely empty when it comes to knowing theirs. And it’s gone beyond the comfortable period of time in which I could still ask for a reminder. Can you imagine how awkward it’d be to ask Mrs. X. what her name is after I’ve had a gazillion freaking conversations with her at pickup time?

I also tend to get stuck on completely wrong names for people too. Once I get a name in my head, it’s like I can’t stop calling the person that, even if it couldn’t be farther from the correct one. I’ve called my neighbor Patty for years and just recently found out that her name is “PAULA“. She must think I’m the biggest jackass on the block. And when my son had a playdate over here yesterday, I must’ve called that kid every little boy’s name under the moon EXCEPT for his actual name.  Poor kid probably went home and told his mom that he never wants to play with the weird lady’s son ever again.

But you see, if everyone was required to wear nametags, there wouldn’t be any more of those tense moments where you’re racking your brain to come up with a frickin’ name.  It’d be right there in plain sight.  No more awkwardness!  No more feeling like a complete dumb ass!  Come on…who’s with me?!
HELLO my name is:  Nucking Futs Mama!!!