A Conversation Between Pepe Le Pew and Mr. Potato Head in Cancel Culture Jail

PEW. What are you in for?

POTATO. Not exactly sure.

PEW. Yeah, samesies.

POTATO. Seriously?

PEW. What?

POTATO. Dude, you’re a total douche bag. I mean, c’mon. Perpetuating rape culture? Not cool.

PEW. Huh?

POTATO. You can’t make a name out of unceasingly throwing yourself at a clearly disinterested female cartoon character several decades ago and expect to not have to answer to a higher power someday regardless if your sole intention was to simply provide some comic relief to children whose parents smoked in the car with the windows rolled up and used a leather belt to teach “life lessons.”

PEW. That’s pretty bold of you to assume that the love of my life back then identified as a female.

POTATO. Huh?

PEW. Alls I’m sayin is, watch your own bobber (air quotes), “Potato Head.”

POTATO. (Sigh) I wish I had a brain so I could sort all of this out in a logical manner.

PEW. Maybe you can trade your mustache in for a brain and a fresh start?

POTATO. Hey! My Grandma had a mustache and she would be offended by that!

PEW. Potatoes don’t have grandmas bro. Get real.

POTATO. Shhhhh!!! Don’t call be bro. What the hell’s wrong with you?!

PEW. Do you think they’re getting a little carried away with all this stuff?

POTATO. Off the record, 100%. On the record (nods head up and down emphatically), maybe a little.

PEW. This isn’t fair! There’s so much more to me than my past inappropriate and misguided advances toward cartoon pussycats.

POTATO. Don’t ever say pussycat again! It’s offensive!

PEW. To who?

POTATO. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! (But seriously, I don’t know.)

PEW. What else shouldn’t I say or do?

POTATO. Pretty much anything that comes to mind at any given moment in time.

PEW. Do you think I can change?

POTATO. Into what?

PEW. A more respectful cartoon character who has learned from his past mistakes and has truly grown and adamantly affirms that any past improper behavior directed toward other cartoon characters was entirely wrong and does not represent who I am as a fictional cartoon character today.

POTATO. Lol. Nope. You’re fucked.

PEW. (Sad) Really?

POTATO. Best case scenario…they’ll make you into a Fortnite skin that parents will pay extra for so their kids can virtually blow up other people’s kids for ten hours a day while they binge watch Netflix and drink “mommy water.” But make no mistake about it…your hugging days are over!

PEW. But I’m a lover, not a fighter!

POTATO. I get it. (Whispers) And I miss being a mister. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

PEW. Life lessons are hard.

POTATO. Amen. Wait…what’s the lesson again?

PEW. (Sigh) No one knows. I could really use a hug right now.

POTATO. You can hold my hand if you want…it fell out.

PEW. (Nervous excitement) Are you sure it’s okay?!

POTATO. (Somber confusion) Nope.

How to Adequately Express Your Love this Valentine’s Day for the Person You’ve Been on Lockdown with Since March

Do you cringe at the sound of your Valentine’s voice? Does the thought of spending one more single second in the same house together at the same time make you occasionally wonder whether or not you could pull off faking your own death? Have you started to finish each other’s sentences by simply not starting them in the first place? 

If you’ve answered yes to any of these questions, then you could probably use a few ideas when it comes to expressing your love this holiday season for that certain someone you’ve been on lockdown with every single minute of every godforsaken day since March. Read on for a few great ideas and don’t be scared to put your own spin on them. After all, there are no rules when it comes to love.

• Start the day off by making your Valentine breakfast in bed. Spell out, “I’m sorry I’m sick of you,” with chocolate chips in his/her heart-shaped pancakes. Look into each other’s eyes and silently nod in agreement. Bring two forks.
• Consider writing a love letter. When it quickly morphs into a list of grievances, remember that you can be a huge pain in the ass to live with too. Be sure to acknowledge this in a postscript at the end in Modern Love Grunge font.
• Start a sarcasm jar. Agree to put a dollar in it each time you mutter a sarcastic response directed at one another. Go ahead and order that new living room furniture you’ve been arguing about for the past four months and throw in two of those unreasonably priced, nonrefundable floor lamps to boot!
• Turn the heat waaaaaay up, squeeze into your swimsuit that fit prepandemic, and sing “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” at the top of your lungs while your sweetie pie is on yet another very important zoom call in the dining room that has no doors to close and is quite literally the epicenter of your home. Really belt it out. 
• Maybe try not wearing sweatpants. Lol, just kidding, it’s not Christmas. 
• When your special Valentine is in the shower, write, “I flushed,” on the bathroom mirror. Put a heart around it and be sure to turn the fan off before leaving the room so it doesn’t fade away before its exciting discovery.
• Nothing says, “I love you with all my heart,” like restocking the beer fridge!
• Take turns trying to guess something you crazy kids don’t know about each other yet. When absolutely nothing comes to mind, play Scrabble.   
• Open a bottle of wine and spend 45 minutes trying to agree on a new Netflix series to start before deciding to lay in bed together while watching separate shows on your separate personal devices (with earbuds connected of course because you’re not assholes). Hold hands. 
• Choreograph a sexy ribbon dance to, “My Funny Valentine,” for your partner’s eyes only. Do not break character. The story you tell your friends afterwards absolutely depends on it. Secretly videotape his/her reaction (definitely not the actual performance).
• Find a corner of the house you’re both not so sick of it makes you want to puke. Emotionally embrace as you simultaneously discover in the way back of the basement storage room that no such place exists. 
• Spice things up a bit and leave, all by yourself. Don’t overthink it. Just go somewhere for a little while. Get some milk while you’re out.
• Did someone say, “coupon book?” I mean, who doesn’t want ten free hugs during a pandemic from the only adult you’ve been allowed to be within six feet of since March?

How to Jump Start Your Humor Writing Career from Home During a Pandemic and Fail

• Have an original idea that’s also pretty funny. Completely disregard the voice in your head reminding you that oftentimes your own idea of funny is very similar to what others might term, “moderately concerning.”
• Distraction is key. Get distracted by anything and everything and do it all of the time. While it’s oddly easy for others in your house to find a quiet space to perform daily tasks and demonstrate consistent productivity toward individual goals during these unprecedented times, the soap dispenser is not going to refill itself and if you haven’t heard, we’re currently in the midst of a pandemic. We need soap!
• Believe your friends when they tell you that the rough draft you forced them to read again is, “Ah-MAAA-zing.” Try not to dwell on the fact that while they generally really like you as a person and sometimes even a writer, they’re also fully aware that your overall self-esteem can be described these days as, “pretty shitty,” at best.
• Remind yourself that no one is counting on you to provide any sort of direct monetary contribution to the family as result of your cute little hobby and take a nap.
• While napping, dream about writing something sidesplittingly, balls-to-the-wall hysterical. Wake up, try to recall it, fail, then take another nap in a desperate attempt to either retrieve it or escape any other concrete idea formation from occurring that day. Carpe diem, but tomorrow!
• Fold some socks.
• Buy a lot of books to help hone your craft. Stack them up in order of favorite spine color or give-a-shit relevance, depending on your mood. Don’t read any of them because time spent reading is time you can spend writing what you definitely won’t write anyway. Write that down.
• Practice, practice, practice! And by this, I obviously mean, make some banana bread with those rotten bananas you can’t stop fixating on over by the sink.
• Use the word, “FUCK,” a lot and in every fucking sentence. It never gets old and/or obnoxious. Fucking ever. See? Economy of fucks? Repeat after me, “Fuck that!”
• Take everything personally and I mean everything. If your recent masterpiece gets rejected, it absolutely means that you are being rejected as a person by society at large and everyone hates you. They also think you’re stupid. Tell your mom, then eat a loaf of banana bread really fast.
• Always go with your gut. Or don’t. Or do. Or don’t…
• Have an original idea that’s also pretty funny. Look, SQUIRREL!

Your Anxiety is Not Helpful During These End Times, So Maybe Try Juggling Steak Knives Instead

Dear 2021 Me,

First and foremost, congratulations on making it this far. If 2020 had been your favorite childhood video game, you definitely would not have saved the princess but instead fallen into the burning pit of fiery hell beneath the Mushroom Kingdom. It wouldn’t have mattered how many lives you accrued in the coin round or Classic Coca-Colas you guzzled to get through the early morning hours for just one more shot at that rascal, Bowser, either. Nope. You wouldn’t have saved anything. You would have just repeatedly bounced your dopey ass into the blazing underworld with nothing but that ridiculous hat, misplaced grin, and nary a hint of hindsight. 

The silver lining is that in real life, the fire was a brick wall, so while you’re a bit bruised and confused by whatever the fuck happened in 2020, you weren’t burned alive. Phew. You also weren’t the only one who got the theoretical shit kicked out of them, which depending on your frame of reference and/or innate desire to feel special will make you feel more or less comforted. The good news is that perspective is the key to success and 2020, suck ass as it did, provided many valuable life lessons that are sure to come in handy down the road if you find yourself once again (or still) floating aimlessly and oarless deep inside the Bermuda Triangle with no map.   

A new year is upon us friend, which according to pretty much everyone means everything that happened last year has come to a very clear and concise end, just like a storybook. It’s over, no more pages. Bye, Felicia! Time to ceremoniously hang your 2021 calendar on the wall and marvel at the gloriousness of the word, January, while trying really hard not to dwell on the fact that just six days in, our entire democratic process came under attack by its own extremely misguided citizens at the cheerleading of our current, and some might argue, batshit crazy, leader. Dig deep young grasshopper, you can do this! It’s time to reflect and set some realistic expectations from the other side. We don’t have to call them resolutions per se because intentionally shooting oneself in the foot from the get-go is never a good idea. Rather, let’s call it, “Shit not to do again during end times.” Grab a pencil. 

First and foremost, don’t drink alcohol while setting realistic expectations in the midst of a nervous breakdown. They won’t seem realistic unless you’re drunk and you can’t always be drunk, because you can’t!  

Don’t freak out, about anything (e.g., pandemics, political unrest, probable collapse of democracy, the terrifyingly uncertain futures of your children, the dude at the grocery store who pulls his mask down to sneeze, the eventual sputtering out of the sun, and/or the fact that some famous guy’s wife may or may not be faking her Spanish accent). Just don’t. No one gives a shit. Grow up.

Don’t believe everything you read/hear. Instead follow the data, just like Dorothy and her friends followed the yellow brick road to the magical, mystical Land of Oz. Once there, ask to speak to the wizard who aligns with your moral compass and buy some glittery red shoes for fun. Once you get the data you agree with and launch what you don’t into outer space, ask for a new brain, lock arms with your adventure buddies and skip off into the sunset while singing Don’t Stop Believin’, by Journey. Bring sunglasses.

Don’t dwell on shit. Overthinking is for losers.

Don’t be surprised. By anything. Ever. Let your guard down. Sit down with your soul sucking anxiety and have a heart to heart. Maybe offer the comfy chair, light a candle, and rub her mealy tentacles with a couple drops of your favorite bullshit reducing essential oils. Next, sit across from her and silently drop giant note cards (one word per card, obvi) with the following message, “If the apocalypse comes tomorrow, CHILLAX sis. It is what it is…God has a plan.” Then smile softly, shed one single tear, and run away as fast as you fucking can into the still, dark night. Wear black.

If you’re not mentally equipped to handle being thrust into a perpetual shitstorm with even the tiniest bit of grace, just don’t have anxiety silly, or any other pesky neurotransmitter problem. Instead, consider learning how to juggle steak knives with your eyes closed. No peeking.

Last, but certainly not least, don’t ever jump into a roaring fire while smiling, even during a pandemic, even during end times. It’s unnatural.  

We’re doomed. Cheers!

‘Twas the night of the Vice Presidential Debate as Told by the Fly on Mike Pence’s Head

‘Twas the night of the Vice Presidential debate, when near Kingsbury Hall,

I sat wide eyed and restless on a dead squirrel’s eyeball.

My family and friends had since gone to bed,

Now dreaming of cowpies and decaying bird heads.

When off in the distance, there arose a distraction,

The source, it appeared, a political faction. 

So way across campus I flew like a flash,

Dodging yard signs and crowds with some scattered white trash.

The moon as a backdrop to proceedings below,

Illuminating pawns of an old guy named Joe.

It was close, I could smell it. I tried to stay cool;

Dead fish guts? Spoiled fruit? An unflushed toilet stool?

When what to my gargantuan eyes did appear,

But a room full of stank and eight scared volunteers.

I knew in that moment, I should probably flee,

This wasn’t just shit, this was bigger than me.

Instead I made friends to create a distraction,

Put my trust in some moths then relied on olfaction.

I whizzed and I zipped and I buzzed with intent,

I sailed by four zombies wearing donkey shaped hats. 

Onward I zoomed toward a transparent wall,

Yelling back to my moth friends, “It’s just a room divider y’all!”

To the front of the stage! To the live screen of millions!

An unlikely hero to all viewing civilian.

The suspense was building, the lights oh so bright,

The camera then zooms in on me super tight.

Alas on a grumpy man’s head did I land,

He was stoic and pasty and mind-numbingly bland.

His words didn’t make sense though because I’m a fly,

And I don’t speak shady politics or crabby white guy.

Is this all I came for? A stiff pile of goop?

I decided to leave and go find some old poop.

As I drew in my wings and prepared to take flight,

A small voice in my head whispered, “That’s not polite.”

“Don’t make a big scene,” the small voice carried on,

“Kick your feet up, chillax, grab an insect-sized bong.”

So I stayed for a really long time for a fly,

A very long, strangely long, really long time.

And just when some thought I might leave, I did not,

And for once in my life no one wanted to swat.

He tried to make points but not one person listened,

Instead they sat glued to my unchanged position.

Completely relaxed, I just took it all in,

Inhaled one more time, then showed off my fly grin. 

But even a super cool fly guy like me,

Can get sick of the spotlight and just want to leave.

So I sprang to my feet, to the moths gave a whistle,

Far away we all flew from that head full of thistle.

Over bright lights, masked faces, and tension galore,

Got the hell out of dodge, buzzed, “Y’all are done for.”

But not before sweeping the room at mach speed,

And dropping to all what was left of my weed.

Then exalted crowds screamed ere I flew out of sight,

“Let’s vote for the fly! That dude seems alright!”

An Open Letter to the Word Unprecedented

On behalf of civilization, it’s been a surreal pleasure getting to know you over the past few months. Some of us likely didn’t even comprehend your precise definition prior to the start of this shit show, but that’s obviously all in the past now. Your ability to repeatedly inject yourself into every single form of communication (written, spoken, imagined) known to humankind on a daily basis since last March is certainly commendable. Even people who say, “supposably,” are correctly using you in context these days. Well done, truly. Here’s where we part ways.

By definition you refer to “something never before known or experienced,” so initially you made sense. It’s been over eight months now so one might argue that you no longer apply to everything shitty going on around us at all times. To be fully transparent, I am arguing that now. The new normal is now old news and quite mind numbingly familiar. In addition, you’ve dramatically lost your appeal as you’ve literally beat a dead horse beyond the point of death at least two million times over now with your pompous and excessive rate of recurrence alone. You have over thirty obvious synonyms, and we haven’t heard from any of them! Get my drift? We’re sick of you. Kindly fuck off before we all start jabbing pointy things into our eyeballs in a desperate attempt to distract ourselves from having to witness and/or read yet another UNPRECEDENTED headline.

Please don’t take this the wrong way. While the phrase, “It’s not you, it’s me,” definitely doesn’t apply here (it’s definitely you), you’ve become familiar now and pending doom or not, familiarity feels nice. However, unprecedented times call for unprecedented (i.e. unique, novel) words and phrases and yes, I hate myself for writing this sentence, but the take home message is that I hate you more. No offense.

Look, you have merit and in 150 years or so if we’re still a functioning species (spoiler alert…we won’t be), feel free to reemerge and claim your rightful spot in an occasional sentence or two just like the good old days. As it stands, society simply cannot stomach you in every other goddamn sentence during every single waking moment of our current and seemingly endless crisis ridden lives. We get it, jackwagon. Life sucks. This is not new news. That said, your ability to continually insert yourself into all media and print material and/or roll off the tongue of almost every single living person who is able to form an educated thought as I type this very sentence is unparalleled, extraordinary, and truly without precedent. See what I did there? THERE ARE OTHER WORDS!!!

Best,

Jill

Things I’d like to tell people who think they know everything…

• You don’t. And by me saying that you don’t know everything certainly doesn’t imply that I do. I for sure don’t either, not even close. Cool?
• Thinking you are never wrong doesn’t eliminate the probability that you are not always right. 
• I am not waiting for you to tell me who to vote for and I’m pretty sure no one else is either, so maybe take a load off and have a beer, or six.
• Political affiliation is not an identifier of human decency. Being decent is.
• If I don’t agree with your views, any repeated declarations on your end will definitely not be the thing that makes me finally see the light. Promise.
• If I do agree with your views, it’s merely a coincidence and not because of anything you have directly emphasized a million times over times infinity times a google. Trust me though, message received. Well done.
• If someone doesn’t (gasp!) share every single morally superior opinion that you have ever had (past, present and future), the sun will still come up tomorrow. Unless it doesn’t, but then none of this matters anyway, so there’s that. Cheers!
• Please refrain from publicly throwing friends/family members/perfect strangers under the bus to really drive your nobody gives a shit point home. That’s what Thanksgiving is for. Pass the stuffing! 
• Instead of virtually harassing people using really big and/or single syllable dumbass words, look in the mirror and say out loud three times, “I’m a big girl/boy now.”
• Generally speaking, capable adults know how to access and sift through all of the absolute bullshit (i.e. news) too. 
• Consider writing an article for the Huffington Post or Breitbart, then sit back with all of your boon companions and revel in the confirmation bias.
• Immigration is only illegal if there is a law against it. 
• Defund the cops if you know for sure you’ll never have to rely on one for anything.
• Systemic racism is bad. 
• People kill people, guns kill people, viruses kill people, and certain hand sanitizers work so long as they don’t poison you first. 
• Feel free to have an opinion, shout it from the rooftops, message it in a bottle, buy a bumper sticker, get a yard sign, wear a hat, don’t wear a hat, but then if someone disagrees with it, kindly take a deep breath and for the love of God just please SHUT THE FUCK UP. Please.
• VOTE!!! Go ahead and wear the little sticker and everything. Plaster that shit all over social media and delight in your accomplishment. You’ve earned it. What a great country we live in (despite the ceaseless corruption and blatant dishonesty on both sides of course, but nonetheless, YAY us!)!
• Choosing to eat a shit sandwich open faced or closed with a garnish (to distract from the shit part) is equivalent to choosing between our current presidential candidates, so let’s maybe not get too carried away here. 
• Experts say and statistics support that 3 out of 10 people will definitely be offended by this and that is kind of offensive to me. 
• ‘Merica!

How To Beat the Coronavirus Blues

• Hide under your covers, preferably in a dark room with no windows or evidence of sunlight. Bring soft and easily digestible snacks. Plan to probably never get up.
• Resist any urge to think positively. There is nothing positive about this situation. Cut ties with everyone in your social circle who disagrees and/or provides encouragement to the contrary. Control, alt, delete.
• Try smiling. Expect body wide muscular discomfort as a result. Lean into it.
• Avoid thinking about the possibility of schools not opening back up in the fall and what this could mean for everyone. Instead, try to determine once and for all what your favorite color is for real. No take backs.
• Look up to the sky with open arms and scream at the top of your lungs, “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR” while turning around in a circle again and again.
• Download the CALM app. Throw your phone across the room when it doesn’t work as advertised. Breathe.
• Make a list of fun summertime things to do with your family. Immediately crumple it up and stomp away like a bratty teenager.
• Erase your pre-pandemic memory entirely to avoid slipping into a deep depression. Fill in the blanks with words that rhyme with “cold beer.”
• Call your brother who tested positive for COVID-19 and reassure him that there is nothing to be ashamed of because it’s not an STD. Whew.
• Learn to whittle.
• Whittle something.
• Blow a bubble. Fun!
• Instead of dwelling on the fact that it is not safe and/or wise for you to physically visit your own parents probably ever again, read a good book.
• Order a pool from a non-existent company online and spend the next two weeks frantically tracing the money trail. Cancel order and apologize to the kids for being a fucking idiot, again.
• Keep up with current events on a muted television with a blindfold on while listening to Disney tunes on full blast. Turn it up and let it go!
• Throat punch a Karen at Target.
• Hug a nurse, with your eyes.
• Google Kanye West for president.
• Breathe.
• Raise a glass, to anything or anyone at anytime for any good and/or shitty reason.
• We are doomed. Cheers!

Off to the grocery story in 34 or so simple steps…

• Park and walk into store.
• Spot the one disinfectant spray bottle and freeze.
• Walk back out to car.
• Grab disinfectant wipe and walk back into store.
• Wipe down the community disinfectant bottle before using it to disinfect your cart.
• Silently panic that you missed a spot. You did.
• Consider taking a swig from the disinfectant bottle before putting it back but then remember that not dying is the actual goal here and you’re not a yuge idiot, so there’s that. Congratulations.
• Check list. Need fruit.
• Examine apples from a distance.
• Close eyes and desperately will apples to clearly signal which ones are not bruised to avoid being the asshole that touches all of them in plain sight and then puts most of them back.
• Be the asshole. Fruit is expensive.
• Shrug off surrounding death glares and repeat above scenario with the Bartlett pears.
• Don’t look up. Everyone hates you.
• Reapply hand sanitizer, but remember, don’t drink it. You’re not a moron.
• Check list. Need chicken broth.
• Proceed to soup aisle.
• Realize midway down that YOU ARE GOING THE WRONG WAY DOWN A ONEWAY AISLE YOU TOTAL FUCKING IDIOT! CAN’T YOU READ?!!
• Proceed with walk of shame. There is no excuse for you to be alive.
• Yay! They have chicken broth today! All your worries immediately melt away.
• Check list. Need milk.
• Examine large refrigerator handle.
• Deduce that the tippy top inside corner of it has likely been touched the least, but then wonder if everyone else thinks the same way you do.
• Stand in fear, frozen in time.
• Frantically open the door and grab 4 gallons of milk faster than anything you have ever done in your entire life and immediately erase the whole experience from memory.
• Disinfect.
• Check list. Need meds. GOD NO! NOT THE PHARMACY!
• Crumble into a ball thinking of having to touch the one pen everyone else in the entire universe has touched to get their own meds released just that same day.
• Touch the pen.
• Go into a coma.
• Wake up.
• Disinfect.
• Check list. Everything else requires touching a handle.
• Fuck everything else and head to the check-out line.
• Stay 6 feet back. From everything. Forever.
• Avoid eye contact and resist any urge to socially interact or be friendly. Note how surprisingly easy this is for you and try not to read into it.
• Redirect attention to invisible things that are actively trying to kill you and your loved ones at this exact moment in time and look around like you for sure know where they are.
• Ooooh! Orange Tic Tacs! Add to list.
• Watch as the gloved cashier carefully manipulates every single item touched by the guy ahead of you who is currently eating corn chips and licking his fingers in the check-out line. Super.
• Change lines and convince yourself that it matters. It definitely doesn’t.
• Get back in your car as fast as you can.
• Mentally note mistakes made.
• Cry.
• Go home. You did it! Personal best!
• Drink alcohol to celebrate you’re not dead yet, but not the disinfectant kind. That’ll kill you. Don’t forget.
• Unload groceries 3 days later.
• Enjoy.

Just in

We are definitely sick of each other now. Any small doubt to the contrary has been completely extinguished and I’m not sure there is much anyone can do at this point to turn things around. It’s fine though because we all still really love each other way deep down inside and I know this to be true because just the other night a tiny woodland creature smiled at me and told me it was so as he scurried across my cowering silhouette under the mighty oak tree in our neighbor’s backyard. Note to self, refill meds.

The Governor removed all hope of resuming normal life any time soon today with the responsibly sound yet absolute bullshit decision to keep the schools closed throughout the end of the school year. This was no big surprise to any reasonable person who has even a tiny grasp of what’s at stake here but thankfully there are others out there that are always personally offended and act in ways that ensure without a shadow of a doubt that the rest of us definitely have a bit more time when it comes to the whole natural selection process. Yay!

As expected, homeschooling has brought out the absolute worst in almost every single one of us with overall new learning repeatedly taking a back seat to collectively wondering, “What’s the actual point,” while shortly thereafter remembering, “Oh that’s right, there is none.” On a positive note, the kids seem to have developed a decent grasp of which parent is most likely to help them succeed in certain subjects, but unfortunately haven’t shied away from repeatedly asking the wrong person every single goddamn time. Thankfully, my overall self-esteem couldn’t have gotten any lower when it comes to performing basic math principles so the joke’s on them and thank goodness for silver linings.

As a rule, we remain moderately disheveled and have interestingly enough taken on peculiar yet individually unique smells that collectively I hope to harness into a candle scent someday for sentimental memorabilia purposes. Coping mechanisms range from running head first into a wall at full speed to curling up in a corner of one’s favorite closet and then not making a fucking sound. In a weak moment, I almost put on real pants the other day, but then I didn’t. Phew.

I spent the first and last nice day we have had since the beginning of time cleaning out my minivan (just in case we get to go anywhere ever again) while fantasizing that maybe someday soon I could fake my own death and maybe just move into it. Sadly, that dream was short-lived after realizing that no one else in the household knows how to adequately put a dirty dish into the dishwasher and the guilt of my helpless family members living like a bunch of garbage people as a direct result of my selfish abandonment was simply too much to personally bear. That said, stashing three bags of Cheetos and a sixer under the spare tire is not above who I am as a person and I will absolutely not be shamed as a result. Note to self, don’t forget a pillow.

Meals these days consist of some shape of noodle and/or bacon. Whatever.

Thanks coronavirus.  

NOW

It’s been around 88 weeks now and if one thing is certain about our current state of existence it is that we definitely don’t know what to do now. In fact, “I don’t know what to do now” is the only phrase anyone really bothers to mutter out loud anymore. It’s evolved over the past few weeks from a question to a firm statement given the obvious fact that there is no longer an acceptable answer. There is simply nothing left to do now. Nor is there anything left to do right before now or any time after now. As a direct result, all evidence of goal directed behavior has been replaced with inconsolable crying and/or eating chip dip by the fistful. 

The tone in the house is barely recognizable anymore. Smiling is generally frowned upon with any evidence of it being dramatically rebuked by the house majority. In addition, liking pretty much anything about each other is becoming more and more difficult though thankfully it hasn’t interfered with anyone’s ability to not care about it. Phew. The children have adapted quite well to the complete elimination of all organized extracurricular activities and have since taken on tattletailing as a competitive sport. While there is no clear winner in this scenario, it sure does elicit tears of joy knowing that when push comes to shove, my kids definitely know how to throw a family member under the bus during tough times.

As parents, we remain committed to teaching life lessons in the midst of uncertainty and continue to search for creative ways to engage the children. Letter writing was introduced last week in an attempt to challenge synaptic transmission and real-life sentence structure with an actual pen and sheet of plain and unbelievably boring notebook paper, just like the pioneers used to do. Proper envelope addressing and stamp placement was a loosely grasped concept and will definitely require some circling back to should anyone decide to do such a ridiculous thing ever again, which is not likely at best.  

Doubling now as recreation and a form of punishment, going outside has predictably lost most of its appeal. The kids want to go outside and play with each other as much as they want to eat actual poop. They don’t like being around each other anymore and it doesn’t matter if fresh air is introduced into the equation or not. Camaraderie is simply not a realistic expectation anymore and we have accepted this and moved on. In related news, locking the children out of the house does seem to be showing some encouraging signs of alliance formation despite the overall and obvious disgust factor towards one another. That said, much more data needs to be collected before drawing any definitive conclusions.

The family dog while appearing to handle the situation better than anyone else from the get go has now taken to randomly shitting in the house on a regular basis, either signaling a clear sign of distress or that he simply has zero fucks left to give anymore just like the rest of us. Frankly, I don’t know what the hell took him so long.

Despite everything, we sure are learning a lot about each other these days. Most notably that we do not generally bring out each other’s best selves and more importantly, we never really needed pants in the first place. Yay!

On a personal note, I couldn’t be more excited about the opportunity to step outside of my comfort zone while living out my absolute worst nightmare as a homeschool teacher to my children in a couple of days and feel incredibly blessed for the extra reason to responsibly abuse alcohol as a result. Thanks coronavirus.

Entry #2

I’m afraid we’ve lost track of all time here and I fear we are no longer oriented to days of the week either. One of us thought that yesterday was Saturday, two of us guessed Friday, one thought maybe it felt like a Wednesday and the last of us didn’t care, even a little bit. Though we are trying to fill time with structured and meaningful activities in hopes of easing the highly anticipated transition back into society in the days/months/years ahead, we maintain equilibrium and balance by allowing frequent breaks for staring off into space indefinitely and counting our blinks. 

The children are beginning to come to terms with the overall state of uncertainty as it applies to the immediate future while finding new and clever ways to maneuver unnoticed around set parental screen times. Yesterday the idea of mandatory family bonding in the same room was carefully broached though quickly aborted after the game of SORRY unequivocally proved that everyone in the house is an asshole and no one is even close to being sorry about it.  

On a less positive note, Dad continues to engage in a seemingly endless line of conference calls from the epicenter of our home and no one is quite sure who the hell he thinks he is anymore. Signs of delusion are definitely starting to creep in as yesterday he suggested that maybe I try to be a little less sarcastic. Eye-rolling and other forms of non-verbal communication have kept the marriage extra spicy these days with no indication of either party backing down and/or compromising in the foreseeable future. As a rule, whoever doesn’t act closest to a two-year-old by the time happy hour rolls around is declared the winner of the day, followed up by a nice quiet evening of alcohol and Netflix.

On a personal note, I have started a productivity chart tracking measurable acts of independent daily progress. In a world where dirty dishes and literal crap is strewn about everywhere with no indication of where anything is really supposed to be anymore, it is important to my overall mental health to have one thing I can sit back and say that I accomplished at the end of each day. Yesterday I cleaned out my bedroom closet. Today, I washed every coat we own because I got to thinking that all of our coats have never been clean all at the same time before and I thought that might be nice. I also tried to go for a run today but quickly remembered that I hate running, so walked back home.

While we all are making a concerted effort to stay calm and keep our personal fears in check, shit got real last night when I completely ran out of paper towels. I’d like to say I am a better person than sitting around nervously dwelling on it and feeling sorry for myself, but I am not.

Thanks coronavirus. Can’t wait for Easter when you’re gone. 

Is anyone out there?

We are on day 4 of no school/self-quarantine here. Life as we know it has halted with no encouraging signs of normalcy resuming in the foreseeable future. While we do the right thing and adhere to governmental and common-sense behavioral guidelines and recommendations during these unchartered times, we find ourselves even this early on wondering what it’s like out there, if there is any truth to the rumors, and if people who share the same DNA blueprint as us are really choosing to hoard toilet paper as their go-to apocalyptic item of choice. The outside world while removed so recently from us suddenly seems so distant and foreign.

Meanwhile, inside these walls, we are scrambling for foolproof methods to successfully co-exist in the same space for an indefinite period of time without breaks and/or recruiting other people. To that point, Day 1 was a total failure. Difficult conversations and self-reflection behind closed doors ensued. As a result, immediate adjustments were implemented in a frantic attempt to prevent the collapse of social order within the confines of our own home. It appears that the inability to fill time with familiar structure and predictable events has paralyzed some here while liberating others, thus creating a certain level of familial discord (i.e. No one can be nice.). As a result, on Day 2, temporary in-house social distancing went from highly recommended to strictly enforced with verbal references to the “the golden rule” repeatedly provided to guide behavior during any unexpected bathroom visit run-ins. So long as there are rooms with walls, doors to open and slam shut, stairs to climb and descend, and pillows to throw and scream into, I am almost confident that we will for sure maybe make it for at least another 4 days, maybe even 5 or 6, I don’t know.  

The kids have been such troopers, handling the sudden interruption to their daily lives like a bunch of chimps, I mean champs. Getting dressed became optional very early on and appears to directly correlate with level of motivation and overall desire to really care much about anything anymore. At this point it’s safe to assume that brushing one’s teeth has been moved to the optional category of activities of daily living tasks, but I haven’t had the courage to ask.  “What can I do now, Mom,” is asked just about every 6 minutes, immediately followed by “I already did that,” and “That’s so boring,” and finally, “Can I play Madden?” The answer is always no to the latter, until it’s not. Feelings of shame and silent promises to be stronger tomorrow, or the next day, follow suit. 

Every predicament has a silver lining though and luckily ours is that Daddy gets to stay home now too. Gone are the days of having to say goodbye in the morning and wait for him to get home in the evening to give big “I miss you” hugs. Nope, he’s here and he has some opinions with regard to things like wake-up time (the early bird gets the worm), when it’s okay to throw out old chicken (never I guess), and work flow as it applies to current day to day home operations (my way or the highway folks). That said, I’m excited to have him onboard.  We’ve actually talked more than we have in a long time in the past few days and the reconnection has been genuinely nice (i.e. weird). While setting up his makeshift office in the dining room (a.k.a. Grand Central Station) might sound like a slightly inconsiderate thing to do given the circumstances, I for one really enjoy being “shushed” for the millionth important phone call of the day while being given a front row seat to observe a genius’s mind at work in real time. He really is on a whole different level of smart, to the point it makes me feel really fucking stupid sometimes, but whatever, it’s really nice he’s home. On a super positive note, today he changed his sweatpants from the stained black ones he’s had on for 3 straight days to fresh heather gray ones, so who knows what that might lead to in the bedroom later. What can I say, dude can rock some heather gray.  

Well, Day 4 has come and almost gone now and if there is a take home message it is that we remain cautiously hopeful that there is continued intelligent life outside these walls, despite newsfeed to the contrary, and I am personally thankful for wine.

As I come to a close and type the last paragraph in this entry, 37 emails from the school district have popped up in the corner of my screen instructing me on what to do next to support and further my children’s learning in the days ahead. What I learned about myself today is that I completely forgot what a rhombus is and immediately lost all respect from my 3^rd grade son as result. Thanks coronavirus. 

A letter to the lady I should’ve throat punched in the women’s bathroom…

I get lots of things. I get people who want to right a wrong. I get people with a passionate stance on something I may or may not give two shits about. I get people who stand up for what they believe in. I get people who speak their mind in a respectful manner. I get people who occasionally entertain the obviously mistaken notion that kids are nothing but a bunch of inconsiderate jerkwads. I get people who are territorial and extra sensitive about personal bathroom goings on. I get people who like to enjoy a meal with friends at a Mexican restaurant on a Thursday night in the city just because a couple of margaritas and friendly camaraderie before the weekend sounds nice. Pass the chips!

Here is what I do not get. Grown-up assholes. Intolerance. Tactless idiots. Intolerant grown-ups who are idiotic tactless assholes. You.

It’s unfortunate that you picked me. There you went though, skinny white girl profiling and waiting for me at the sinks. Had you known that I can do 10 real pushups all in a row and have years of repressed anger and rage just waiting for the tiniest excuse to take front and center stage, you most likely would’ve thought twice about engaging me. Instead you chose unwisely, poor thing. The expression of disgust on your face is one that I truly hope you have some sort of control over. No offense, but if that’s what you go around looking like all of the time then you have way bigger problems than sharing a sink with the Devil and her penis carting offspring. Just sayin.

Yep. He’s a boy…in the GIRL’S bathroom (GASP!). Hmmmmm, what to do??? I can think of a few things off the top of my head, but that’s just me. I like to think sometimes before I act. My raging TMJ would most likely disagree as gritting my teeth to the point of enamel corrosion isn’t super comfortable and/or fun by any stretch of the imagination, yet if I allowed myself to impulsively react prior to running shit through my prefrontal cortex, people would be dead and my kids would only get to see their mother through a glass window on special occasions. Let’s face it, that is not an ideal situation for anyone requiring clean socks and/or toilet paper roll replacement on a continual basis. They can’t survive without me! Plus, I don’t want to trade cigarettes for hand sanitizer. I’m better than that.

You felt personally violated. You felt very offended. You felt so disrespected by me and my (“WHAT IS HE LIKE 11 YEARS OLD?!”) 7 year old son who peed together in the privacy of our own tiny locked stall that you took it upon yourself to not put your energy towards a worthwhile cause like self-growth or proper post piss hand hygiene but rather shame me for bringing my kid with a penis into the girl’s bathroom because he was scared to go into the giant penis bathroom alone. What a little pervert! I mean look at him standing there looking up at his mother with wide glossy eyes desperate for some sort of reassuring sign that he is in fact not the antichrist disguised in a little league baseball hat. “Am I Mommy?”

Alas, hindsight is 20/20 and I have to admit that I’m super happy that this happened and here’s why. Teaching life lessons on the fly is my jam. At any rate, please let me assure you that based on your impromptu bathroom intervention, I will not think twice about doing the exact same thing again because I hereby vow to support and protect my sweet deviant child in any/every capacity from now until my last life’s breath regardless of his sick and twisted second grade predatorial instincts toward unattractive middle aged women who enjoy humiliating young kids and bullying mothers whose only immediate life goal is to mind their own business and get over to the motherfucking soap dispenser without having to problem solve how to deal with a complete character assassination in front of a kid who really adores and looks up to her.

Surprisingly, here is where I express gratitude. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for providing such an important learning lesson for my son in what should’ve been a routine and very forgettable bathroom visit. Thank you for teaching him that not only does he have every reason to be petrified of going into a public restroom alone, but that he still needs his mother to protect him from miserable life sucking human beings and remind him to wash his hands with soap and teach him how to appropriately respond to a steaming pile of unexpected bullshit with a bit of grace.

“Mommy got mad and said a really bad word.”

Technically, I said more than one, but the important thing to note here is that my kid thinks I’m a total bad ass right now and I feel really good about myself. Pass the chips.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There Are No Beans Here!

I got a new driving app on my phone the other day. It tracks your driving habits every time you happen to be behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle. Brake time, acceleration rate, the whole works. Then it tallies everything up and based on some ridiculous algorithm developed and computed by a microscopic computer asshole that was given permission by your own dipshit self to set up shop inside your goddamn phone keeps track of everything and spits out an updated score based on how it thinks you are doing as a driver on a continual basis. Here’s the reward, as if that wasn’t enough. If you happen to play to your elderly instincts spot on every single day of your life and stay above the recommended acceptable percentage point over a period of time, you get a three percent discount on your insurance. Who wants a high five?  

Of course there was some resistance at first. Mostly because I am not an idiot and secondly because if I wanted my mom in the back seat of my car each and every time I decided to take a spin, I would invite her in, give her some Fritos and strongly encourage feedback. “Oh dear Jill.”“I know Mom!”

As an adult who actually took and passed her driver’s exam the second time years ago, I simply don’t feel the need for judgement or criticism or a tap on the shoulder or a frowning face that pops up on my phone screen distracting me from driving to tell me that I am actually and in no uncertain terms not my grandpa tooling around looking at the beans coming up in an open field on a Sunday afternoon. Nope, I am indeed not my grandpa. Let’s write that down. Instead, I am a stay at home mom barely hanging onto what is left of my sanity with three kids and it’s summertime motherfuckers! We’re definitely not in the business of looking at beans. We’re in the business of racing and chasing from point A to point B so my extremely busy and adorable children can maintain muscle mass, brain activity, friendships, and a daily acceptable fun factor that at the end of the day keeps us in the running for at least not the least fun family in the whole wide world. I am a fun person goddammit! “Get in the van kids!” 

Here’s the scenario inside. Kid 3 likes to sing. Kid 2 hates it when Kid 3 sings. Kid 2 yells at Kid 3. Kid 3 keeps singing, he doesn’t know the words but decides it’s time to really test out his vocal chord limitations nonetheless. Kid 2 yells again, but this time at me because now it’s obviously become my fault that she is intolerant of any sounds that come from within a 10 foot radius of her little brother, including the breath of life. Kid 3 sings even louder now because although he is super cute, he can also be a ginormous asshole sometimes. Kid 2’s yelling becomes somewhat of a shrill now but there’s really nothing to describe the sound that she makes when she gets pissed off, so let’s just call it absolute unbearable mind blowing agony. 

Meanwhile, I am driving. Driving, driving, driving. Paying attention to traffic signals and signs and cyclists with a death wish and dicks on their phones right beside me on the road who if would raise their gaze and halt their very important text for one millisecond would definitely see mid scroll the extent of my sign language skills. “Hey Asshat! I have my beautiful children in here and if I could I would pull your shit for brains over and as punishment put them all inside your car sans any form of outside communication device!”

“Mom, you said it‘s not nice to use your middle finger, remember?” Perfect. Insert quick life lesson about using one’s best judgement for the sake of human kind here. Ugh. 

Let’s not forget about Kid 1 who gets to sit in the front seat now because she is a big girl and likes to stare at her own phone while simultaneously changing the radio station every four seconds to find the perfect nonexistent song. “NO! This is my van! Someday when you are 42 and living the dream and have 3 kids and a minivan and get to drive around in a big huge circle all day long you can choose your own survival music to drowned out the painful noises!” Luckily Kid 1 has been around the block a few times and is wise enough to know the undeniable look of batshit crazy…so country music it is…because I’m a blonde and white female cliche and it’s summertime motherfuckers!

Of course life can be a pain in the ass sometimes. Of course it’s all worth it. Of course I love my children beyond measure. Of course I will undoubtedly miss the chaos someday. Of course getting zero acknowledgement and/or gratitude from my beloved moppets on a daily basis is simply part of the gig I signed up for. Of course the only thing missing from my life was an app that reminds me every single night that the guy I love yet can’t stand losing to the most in this entire universe and whose daily commute consists of a peaceful and companionless scenic lake shore drive topping out at 30 mph while listening to talk radio just happens to be a better driver than me on paper. Excuse me while I amble over here and call BULLSHIT!

Oooooooh, but that discount though!

 

An open letter to the piss covered toilet seat in my kid’s bathroom…

I know it must be hard for you…being covered in kid urine day after day after ever loving day, much like it is hard for me to observe it from afar. It’s led to neglect on my part and I’m truly sorry. Please don’t blame yourself, it’s obviously not your fault. It’s no secret who the real perpetrator is here. That said, you absolutely disgust me and I’m tired of being the only one who figuratively gives a shit.

Why no one else is bothered by you and/or cares is something I have yet to wrap my head around. I have clearly failed at raising dignified and responsible human beings. Lifting the seat is obviously too difficult a concept for an almost 7 year old that can operate every single technological gadget in the world better than his mother to grasp. I get it. There are limits to one’s capabilities. And why his older sisters are not bothered by what he does to you in the least and simply choose to nonchalantly sit down and get back up again without batting an eyelid or wasting a worry will never in this lifetime make sense to me. They wouldn’t extend a hand in need to one another if their lives depended on it (because it requires actual physical touch), but they purposely choose to sit atop each other’s liquid body waste on a repeated and daily basis without so much as a tiny flinch. It’s bewildering to me. I’m bewildered.

I can’t help but wonder, will we ever reach a point that your frequently returning customers will decide it’s time to take action?  Is there a point where they will be bothered, even just slightly, by regularly sitting in what is in no uncertain terms to anyone that can actually see with their own eyes more dried on piss splatter than actual toilet seat? Can you maybe just suck one of them in once to give the other two a bit of a fright? You can give him/her back at some point but only if they’ve learned a valuable lesson and are fully committed to behavioral change. If not, just take them all one by one into the still dark soupy sea of shit that lies beneath and you and I can get reacquainted. I’ve missed you.

Don’t judge me either! I’ve tried. I’ve given tutorials, repeated demonstrations, verbal reinforcement, and threatened small lives. I’ve place a canister of organic, environmentally friendly, grass-fed, non-GMO disinfecting wipes within simple reach and I’ve shown them how to properly open and use one (or ten). I’ve observed, I’ve coached, I’ve pretended I am a boy while actually attempting to pee AS A GIRL standing up over a raised toilet seat. “See, Mommy can do it and she doesn’t even have a thing.”

Here’s what I’m going to do and please know that this is not easy for me to say. I’m not going to wipe you off anymore. I’m not even going to look in your general direction.  You’ll be in my constant thoughts and prayers but there’s really nothing I can do for you at this point. They’ve done this to you. Remember that. With any glimmer of hope, maybe in eleven or twelve years I can cop a squat and we can pick up where we left off. After all, no one sees me the way you do. Don’t worry, I’ll always remember the good times.

Godspeed repugnant friend.

Sweet Dreams

I’m not a fan of clocks. It’s not the Father Time thing either, although he’s turning out to be a major pain in my ass as well. It’s the ticking and the tocking. Over and over and over again with expected precision increasing in intensity the more you desperately try to avoid it. I have a freakishly heightened awareness to sound, to the point I am certain that when the aliens invade I will undoubtedly become one of their high priority research projects. My worst nightmares include me being locked in a small room with loose change scattered about the floor, no furniture, and one very large wall clock mounted just beyond reach.

As most adaptable human beings tend to do when dealing with general annoyances, I have learned to compensate for things within my control. I simply choose not to own a clock that ticks and tocks. Brilliant, I know. It took a while for me to adequately problem solve through it. In graduate school, I used to take the clocks off the wall in my apartment and attempt to suffocate them under a pile of towels in my linen closet while I intensely studied for hours on end. Taking the batteries out would’ve accomplished the same thing but that adds the step of reseting the clock when you’re ready to hang it back up, and who the hell has time for that? I am efficient to the core and obviously smart as a whip.

Nowadays I merely avoid them altogether. Nondigital clocks are simply not allowed in my house. Quite frankly, the choice is me or a clock that ticks and tocks and so far my family has chosen me. Do I care that my kids very well might never be able to accurately tell time using the hands on a clock? Nope, not one bit. Just like cursive writing, I have a hunch that some day telling time will be slowly phased out or at the very least considered optional practice. Is it really that important? We’re all going to die someday. Why keep track?

On a separate but related note, my husband snores. It reminds me of a ticking clock because of the extremely high annoyance factor. Also, like clockwork, you can predict exactly when it’s going to repeatedly happen, over and over and over again until it seeps into your soul and transforms you into the devil himself. Unlike a clock, you can’t get rid of it or make any real attempt at suffocation. You can move away from the sound but there are only so many walls in your house before you’re outside, and it’s really fucking cold outside right now where I live. Captain Obvious might suggest using a fan or a small noise machine to drowned out the exasperating sound. Insert eye roll here.

I had the pleasure of knowing and adoring the sweetest most loving and devoted married couple that ever walked our planet. They were married for almost a million years and they never argued or bickered, they always smiled at each other from across the room, they lovingly referred to each other as “Ma” and “Pa,” and they chose to share a cookie. I have my theories as to why they were so easily able to break the standard till death do us part mold (i.e. genuinely be nice to each other throughout the passage of time). A. They never had kids. B. They slept in separate bedrooms.

I sometimes imagine my own bedroom complete with cool tones, noise cancelling walls, light cancelling drapes, the faint smell of lavender ever so delicately being diffused into the air from the bedside nightstand that also adorns the novel that has been bookmarked for continued reading. I imagine a pillow top mattress that I sink so far into I can no longer be seen. Sheets that don’t reek of the prior week’s sweat and void of crusty kid snot. A down comforter that smells none like manhood, but rather like a field of daisies on a pleasant summer evening with non attention seeking continuous white noise humming in the background without interruption.

Is it too much to ask? Does a happy marriage really have to start in the bedroom? Or can we put societal norms and expectations aside for a brief moment and imagine what it would be like to wake up refreshed and rested and still in love with our spouse the next morning? Moreover, is it healthy to want to bludgeon each other in the middle of every single night for something outside of human control? Does repeated and forceful kicking of the source of your disrupted sleep in an effort to disrupt his sleep really add any sort of positivity to a relationship? I asked my husband to roll over the other night. He responded after the 17th time, “Like a dog?”

“Yes honey, like a fucking dog.”

Beam me up, Scotty.

 

Yuletide greetings from the f#!king elf

Greetings from the Veldhouse family Elf on the Shelf. I’ve had a busy off season but couldn’t be feeling better about life in general despite world, domestic, and local news to the contrary. What can I say, I’m an elf, I’m upbeat. As a reward for best seasonal performance last year, Santa put me and some buddies up in a sick pad on the coast of Spain and it was absolutely life changing. I did a ten day yoga retreat, threw back some beers with my besties on a private yacht, took a pill in Ibiza to show Luigi I was cool, and returned to the North Pole with a skip in my step and ready for my next assignment with the Veldhouses.

Tweenie turned 12 this year and is currently rocking her way through middle school like a champ. I like Tweenie. She’s super nice and seems to have a good grasp on the true meaning of Christmas. She enjoys playing basketball, watching basketball, talking about basketball, and pretending to be tired while sneaking off to Snapchat her friends. She is also fond of utilizing her recently acquired bat ears from rooms away, interjecting “like” and “you know” three times in every sentence, rolling her eyes, stealing her mom’s socks, and pretending she isn’t always on her phone. She walked directly into an open overhead kitchen cabinet the other day while texting and could not have been less phased by the blunt force trauma to her head. Truly impressive by all standards. Dysfunctional phone usage aside, Tweenie is going to save the world someday, or the whales, or something really important. Mark my words.

If there was ever a person I could choose to bring back to hang with the Christmas elves all year round, it would be Miss May (a.k.a. the fun one). Though she’s not much of a “worker,” she’s always up for eating candy, drinking anything chocolatey, wearing glittery things, telling inappropriate jokes, and walking her way through life with a bit of a shifty grin. Her ability to imagine she’s the most important person on earth can surprisingly still be a day brightener 1 out of every 37 times. Miss May is a dreamer and while some might call her delusional at this point, I for one cannot wait to see what she grows up to be. Bright lights and big cities are definitely in her future while suburbia and regularity is most certainly not. I’ll be moving out with her when the time comes. Her Royal Highness likes to dance, create, imagine, wear lipstick, win arguments, get the last laugh, and try her best at things she enjoys doing while simply not bothering with anything else. She also enjoys being stubborn and chewing bubble gum.

Buddy is the baby of the family but no longer an actual baby, much to his mother’s chagrin. He is an absolute stinker but gets a free pass on almost everything because he still holds his mommy’s hand in public. He really enjoys watching the iPad, watching T.V., asking to watch the iPad and/or T.V., and complaining that he never gets to watch the iPad and/or T.V. He also likes to take a break from mindless screen time to play interactive video games. To get away from all the stress, he enjoys playing any sport that makes him the sweatiest. He recently earned his man card at the ripe age of 6 when his daddy gave him permission to use the Old Spice body wash all by himself in the shower (#ladiesman). First grade has provided many new and exciting life lessons, with sign language using one’s middle finger appearing to (always accidentally of course) top the list. His vice is chicken mcnuggets, which his parents allow on occasion because he’s super cute and they are plain and simply that lazy sometimes. Hold the sauce.

Mr. Veldhouse is as cool a dude as ever. If he had pointy ears and a head that could swivel 360 degrees around while never blinking I’d swear he was my brother. He well deserves a sugary kiss under the mistletoe this season, but instead will likely be met with constant nagging about pretty much everything by the woman he chose to marry. He also enjoys undercooked bacon.

Mrs. Veldhouse continues to be irritable and overly annoyed by almost every single thing. She did manage to check a couple things off her bucket list this year though and is hoping that 2018 will reward her with less chin acne and more recognizable talent to boot. She likes Cheetos and red wine in somewhat concerning quantities, but hopes to turn everything around in the New Year (lol). I try not to make eye contact with her.

Wishing you sprinkles on top of everything and boundless merriment in the new year despite current dire circumstances of the world. I plan to watch it all go down with a double cup of cheer from the North Pole under the mistletoe with Miss Red.

Because I’m a fucking elf, that’s why.

To the apocalypse. Cheers!

~Rezbeard

It’s Poop!

I really like that my kids are now at an age where they can theoretically do stuff for themselves. It’s nice. Frees up more time for me to ponder the world and my place within it. That said, I typically try to avoid going anywhere outside of my own head to gather information and/or form opinions. If I could live in a cave in the mountains of Montana, I probably would, but sadly I’m not fond of the dark, no one will currently go with me, and I assume it’d be difficult to buy wine there, so on to bigger and more realistic problems. Like the fact that my adorable baby boy is unable to effectively wipe his own ass.

The kid is the sweetest 6 year old boy you will ever meet. Heads into the bathroom proudly declaring to the world, “Going poop Mommy. I’ll do it all by myself.” I immediately freeze in time and space and begin frantic self talk. “It’s going to be fine. There are bigger life problems. Breathe. Take a deep breath. Seriously if you don’t breathe you will literally die standing right here in your kitchen and then WHO WILL CLEAN IT UP?”

I really enjoy watching my children spread their wings and gain a sense of independence and confidence along the way. I don’t want them to live here forever. In addition, as nice as it sounds to believe my beloved offspring will always need their mother, I know my days are numbered. I typically like to poop alone too, so I get it.

Here’s the problem. He unequivocally cannot do it. Not only can he not do it, but he can unequivocally not do it. I have demonstrated, educated, reiterated, and drawn a map. “Got it Mommy!”

No he does not.

I don’t want to be the type of mom that enables her children. I want them to do things for themselves. I refuse to raise children incapable of being capable. I don’t do their homework when asked. It’s not because I don’t get it either. It’s because I don’t get it and they need to learn how to become functional members of society and not wait around for someone else to do their shit. That said, it’s poop.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt the other day. Let him do his business in private and didn’t even hover outside the door. Walked in there several minutes later only to discover a perfectly formed thumb print made out of actual poop on the top of the toilet paper roll. Let me be crystal clear. This is not a house where this sort of thing might be even remotely considered appropriate. As such, my detective brain immediately kicked in.

Is this some sort of intentional clue left behind for someone to uncover?

Are their longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates in there somewhere that will save someone’s life if examined under a black light?

I consider to investigate briefly, but then remember, it’s poop.

We are not cavemen. We do not live in a cave in the middle of Montana and even if we did, I would bring toilet paper and disinfecting wipes and 5,ooo cases of red wine because I am a planner and under no circumstances ever is literal poop left on the top of a toilet paper roll acceptable. Ever.   

Cats are assholes

I turned 42 the other day and I could not have handled it worse. The day vacillated between driving around listening to sad country music, drinking (yes drinking) myself into a brown gravy coma, and desperately trying to somehow reason out why I hate my birthday to appease all of the inquiring minds out there that desperately need an answer. Every year this happens to me, or I should say, I happen to me. I get inside my head and sabotage the one special day out of the year I get to share with a mere 19 million other people in the world. My little brother can’t even wrap his head around it and he’s the grumpiest person I know. “Everyone likes their birthday Jill.”

Do they? Because I definitely don’t and the concept of “everyone” includes me if we’re going to get technical here, right? I feel that after four decades of life, I have earned the right to form opinions. Besides, I like other things. I like the day before my birthday (I actually really like that day a lot for some reason). I like nighttime picnics. I like most of my family and friends. I like brutal honesty sans one ounce of bullshit. I like not answering the door for solicitors and/or unexpected guests (Sorry Mom.). I like the smell of Autumn. I like non-cheap red wine (Sorry honey). I like winning (especially against said honey). I like clever sarcasm and crude language. I like screwing with people (figuratively, not literally). I like the color grey (yes, grey). I like extra gravy. I like surprising people. And I like OTHER PEOPLE’S birthdays. I just don’t like my own. The horror!

People just can’t seem to wrap their head around it. I know it doesn’t make any sense. Who doesn’t like their own birthday? What kind of sad and pathetic human being could I possibly be?

Please refrain from intervention. I promise I am not having a mid-life crisis. I know this because I asked my therapist last week and she said, albeit with a bit of an eye wander, that she definitely doesn’t think so and I believe her because she likes me. To be certain, I googled “midlife crisis” on my internet machine shortly thereafter. Based on the search results, I am also close to almost certain that I do not have it. I simply do not meet the criteria.

• I have zero desire to reclaim my youth (Been there, done that. No thanks.).
• I don’t want to trade my minivan in for a sports car. (I have three kids. They wouldn’t all survive in such close proximity to each other and I’ll be damned if I’m making extra trips regardless of how cool my ass looks behind the wheel of a pre-owned two door sedan with Tay Tay on full blast and the windows down.)
• I don’t want botox (I simply prefer to be seen in the dark.).
• I don’t want a younger hunkier bed partner (I want to sleep alone.).
• I don’t want to reevaluate my goals. (My goals are rock solid. To be the next Tina Fey or Amy Poehler by next week and to eat less Cheetos.).
• And so on and so forth.

Nothing traumatic or sad ever happened to me on my birthday either, so no need for speculation or pity in that regard. I decided on my own with my own brain at a very young age that birthday festivities in my honor were simply not for me. I quit having parties by third grade. It was my choice. They always made me cry. I don’t know why. No one was mean, everyone brought presents, Mom always made cake, and I got to wear a big hat. Turns out I just couldn’t be bothered with even trying to meet the expectations of being the birthday girl. Who gives a shit. Everyone just wants the cake. I get it. Keep the hat.

It’s not the getting older thing either. I could honestly care less at this point. I stopped keeping track of my age at around 34ish. Just didn’t seem pertinent anymore after kids. That’s not to say I wasn’t extremely flattered that one of my son’s first grade classmates told me last week at the “fall party” on Halloween that I looked like I was 23 years old. I gave him three overzealous fist bumps and immediately and quite loudly declared little Petey my new best friend, but that’s beside the point. The point is I will probably never be asked to volunteer at another class party again.

Maybe it’s because I can’t handle being the center of attention for a whole day? Maybe it’s because I put a lot of time and effort and enthusiasm into acknowledging everyone else’s birthday on the planet and the half-assing it on my behalf is quite frankly just not up to my standards of awesomeness because I’m that self absorbed? Maybe its because my grandma isn’t alive anymore to take me shopping and give me a disgusting lemon drop that’s stuck to the bottom of a unclean mason jar that I loved and savored every single suck of? Maybe it’s because I don’t want presents but I do but I don’t but I do? Maybe it’s because I don’t like cake (Yep! I said it!)? Maybe it’s because asking my children for one goddamn day to not be assholes to each other because it’s their mother’s birthday is apparently just too much for their tiny brains to grasp? Maybe it’s because I actually enjoy breaking into tears every year on my birthday for no reason at all because it just feels nice? Maybe it’s because I’d rather have zero expectations on any other day of the year than to forcefully smile my way through 24 hours of inevitable disappointment just because it’s my (and 19 million other people’s) birthday and I could give a fuck less? Maybe I don’t care that you care so much about why I hate my birthday? Maybe I’m grumpy like my brother? Maybe you’re judgmental?

I don’t like my birthday. And I hate Mother’s Day too. And cats. And birds.

Deal with it.

 

 

Code Brown

I have high expectations of myself. I also tend to excel in pressure situations. As such, when I was first informed of such a risk, I was completely unbothered and amused. The thought was so outside of the realm of possibility from a personal standpoint that it was simply absurd.  I control my own destiny at game time. In addition, I pride myself in having more self control and basic dignity than the average joe, so I was highly confident my ducks were in a row. Carry on with your nonsense givers of advice, I got this.

In hindsight it seems so simple and preventable. I let myself down and as a result will never be the same. There is no turning back and/or fully recovering from something like that either. I will never be able to retrieve or genuinely claim any sort of dignified identity ever again. Whereas I was once self assured and confident, I am now incredibly weak and insecure. Even the tiniest most basic of tasks has since become a mountain of uncertainty and self doubt.

It couldn’t have been more than a dime in diameter, maybe a nickel, I don’t know. The actual size is debatable yet sadly irrelevant. My husband tells me all the time that size doesn’t matter and he’s a scientist so I almost always believe him. What matters is the actual physical existence of something in time and space. The “now you see it, now you don’t” phenomenon still implies that someone actually saw it once. There’s proof!

I could feel it. I felt it, okay? I couldn’t see it but I knew it had happened. It’s been over a decade yet I close my eyes and still immediately feel the shame. Despite the fact that most feeling in that region was virtually gone, I knew it had happened. Maybe I’m a medical marvel, who knows, but explosive rocket-like projectile force out of a bodily orifice is impossible to ignore regardless of actual site specific nervous system sensation. Besides, the, “Oh dear don’t make eye contact” expression on her face immediately confirmed it. Her nonchalant and pathetic attempt to run off with the evidence without being noticed failed miserably. Does she even know who the hell I am? I’m not the type of person you pull stuff over on lady. I’m the puller, every single goddamn time! The fact that hubby dearest was cowering in a corner wishing himself into the invisible man to avoid any sort of confrontation was predictably annoying yet strangely unimportant at the time. The difference is I know stuff about him too. A tit for tat knowledge of unpleasant and humiliating personal traits and experiences feeds our relationship. She knows nothing else about me! This is it! You only get one chance to make a first impression!

I can tolerate a basic degree of bullshit from time to time, but blatant lying to my face regardless of the intent is not one of them. I asked her a direct question and she not only attempted to discredit my intelligence by answering dishonestly but went one step further and completely changed the subject.

“Meet your new baby Mrs. Veldhouse. Congratulations, she’s beautiful!”

I pooped on the table. Nothing else matters.

Identified Weakness

I can do a lot of things.

I can shoot a basketball relatively well from a short distance away from the hoop while not being guarded. I can peel the entire surface area of an apple peeling without breakage and/or interruption. I can remember birthdays of my grade school crushes on a yearly basis without fail. I can not poop for a week and still ambulate around somewhat normally. I can touch the tip of my nose with the end of my tongue. I can lip sync Ice Ice Baby in its entirety like a boss. I can pretend to be interested when I am in fact not. I can take a nap as soon as I wake up. I can avoid elevator buttons and public door handles and still manage to function in society quite well. I can turn my husband into a 13 year old boy by simply not wearing a bra. I can tell you the difference between your and you’re in no uncertain terms 777 times and you will still fucking use it wrong. I can use sarcasm and dark humor to hide emotional pain and anguish. I can be Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy in the same night without so much as a costume change. I can also give vaginal birth to three kids and still somehow love them immediately afterwards. I’m gifted like that.

Do you know what I can’t do?

I can’t put a bun in someone else’s hair. I’ve never had long hair in my life, which is kind of weird because I’m almost 42 years old and a girl. I’ve also never been a dancer or anything that would require me to even attempt to put my hair in a perfectly formed circular roll on the top of my head. Quite honestly, I think my personality jives more with the messy bun type of situation but I’ve never had to explore my affinity for the bun in any form. It’s a skill I have never needed or even remotely wanted to acquire in my entire life as a human being on this planet.

Do you know what else I can’t do?

I can’t put a bun in someone else’s hair when they are angrily screaming at me to do so. I have limitations. Tolerating shitty behavior, forming a bun on top of a head under pressure and not losing my mind when asked to do both at the same time are definitely three of them. Not to mention the 13 bobby pins that are doing absolutely nothing to help ease my pain. All of a sudden I hate myself. More importantly, in 2.5 seconds she is going to see them poking out at every angle and shit is going to get real.

Serenity now!

Fuck picture day.

Gut check time

She wants to “walk around downtown.”  What the hell does that even mean these days?  It’s probably some middle school code language for something not good, or even bad.  How would I know, I’m 41 (i.e. not cool anymore).  I barely even remember middle school let alone the exact methods I used to snow my parents into thinking I was actually just going to “walk around downtown.”  Regardless, there was no getting away with much of anything in the town I grew up in.  It had 3 streets.  And 2 cops.  My friends and I literally had to walk by my own house at least five times during the walk just to make it not seem weird and/or suspicious to the locals that we were walking up and down one street all night long.  Not to mention the fact that my parent’s business was on the corner of main street, right by where the stop light would be if the town ever decided to put one in.  Walking around downtown during business hours meant literally waving to my Mom and Dad through the giant glass windows that faced main street as they greeted and then served their valued and loyal customer who two minutes before I walked past the window had already told my parents, “I just saw Jill walking around downtown.”  

To make matters worse, her genes sadly work against her in this department.  Her dad was a little shit when he was a kid.  Damn him.  And damn karma.

“All my friends get to do it Mom.” 

Well that’s just great.  They clearly have horrible parents, or no parents at all, or really stupid parents.  I am not stupid and this ain’t my first rodeo.  She doesn’t know what I know.  If she did, she would understand my reservation to let her do anything outside the boundaries of our home without parental supervision from now until the end of time.  I’ve been schooled before by the universe’s random acts of unkindness bullshit.  Really shitty things can happen to really undeserving people through zero fault of their own and that’s all I’m going to say about that.  I am on to the universe and it’s shenanigans.  My kids are off limits.  I got my dukes up, eyes in the back of my head, and a delusional sense of control that you can pry from my dead hands someday.  I actually dare you.

My children should be grateful to have such a caring and loving mother, not annoyed that I probably just saved their life by saying no to each and every request that may or may not pose danger.   Damn the universe and damn trustworthy and responsible children around the world that give their parents absolutely no reason to say no to an age appropriate request.

She’s going to “walk around downtown” today after school with her friends.

And I am going to spy on her.

I’m kidding…

Or not.

Metaphorically speaking

I don’t know why I’ve let it go on for so long.  I know better.  As a rule, the longer I let things fester, the worse things get for everyone involved.  Truth be told, I don’t even think they want to be here anymore.  They have to know how I feel about them.  I’m not sure I ever really liked them nor do I remember what the hell possessed me to bring them home at separate and unrelated moments in history in the first place.  They don’t even go together, each one silently repelling the other while projecting negativity all around.  I want to start over, but how?  So many things rely on them.  Oh, they’d love nothing more than to think this is all about them, but I have news for those soul sucking egomaniacs.  It’s not.  They would’ve been long gone by now if it wasn’t for my inability to think outside the box.  Change is hard for me.  Almost as hard as big decision making.  Both require a certain skill set that I have yet to attain, despite really needing/wanting it.

I’m pretty sure I hate them at this point.  I’m not proud of it.  I for sure hate myself for not standing up to them and what they represent.  Stagnation.  Indifference.  Boredom.  Regret.  One has a giant fucking snowflake on it okay?  It’s almost April.  No one wants to look at a giant fucking snowflake anymore, even if it’s really pretty.  Sadly, that’s the best one of the bunch and I’d be a complete dick if I get rid of the best one first.  The fact that I couldn’t have cared less to pack it away with its chipper seasonal friends a few months back speaks volumes, but that ship has sailed.  I went all in on the complimentary fucking snowflake because it made sense at the time and prevented me from confronting the real problem.

Then there’s the big guy who clearly missed the memo that burnt orange is definitely not what all the cool kids are doing anymore.  Even I know that and I own one purse.  Let me tell you something else about Mr. Ginormous Eyesore.  He scares the living shit out of me, okay?  I’m not sure I have the balls to even get near him without surgical gloves and/or a long stick at this point.  Ugh. 

The middle one is a great big sad and pathetic story of its own.  What used to be sparkly and full of intrigue, now appears weathered and dull and completely insignificant.  Truth be told, no one would even notice if it was gone, poor thing.  Its personality has literally been chipped away over years of misuse to reveal an abrasiveness I never thought possible.  It hurts and I don’t know what the hell happened.  It used to be my favorite one.  Yes, I pick favorites.  Sue me.

Let’s assume for a moment that I can actually go through with replacing them.  What if I make the wrong decision?  What if they don’t get along with the ceramic elephant in the room?  I can’t get rid of the elephant in the room.  He’s symbolic and he has a name.  It’s Gustavo.   The whole return process and thought of starting over at square one is so unbelievably exhausting that I honestly don’t think I have the stamina to recover from something like that.  I know my limits and pointless running around from place to place with nothing to show for it at the end of the day is definitely one of them.  I’d rather take a nap.  Doing things that don’t matter have become highly bothersome.  It’s hard to care.

That said, it’s not like it’s a bedroom or the office where I can just close the door and no one will be the wiser.  There is no door.  It’s the living room for fuck sake!  People will notice and then draw conclusions regarding my personality, general appeal, and overall worldly significance.  What does Jill bring to the room?  Am I bright and cheery, purple and mysterious, brown and feckless, white and crazy?  It’s a giant fucking snowflake and it’s almost summer!  You do the math.

I need new throw pillows.  Whatever.

Royalty

There are certain things/procedures I swore I would never voluntarily choose to undergo and this one definitely tops the list.  Things happen though.  Time has a way of passing us by in a flash until all we are left with are memories of youthful days gone by.  Days when little to no maintenance was required to simply just be.  Like many ignorant souls before me, I took that for granted.  I now have to pay the price.  As I sit her typing this very sentence, I reflect on my decision to move forward and examine the process that led to my current state of swollenness and regret, accompanied only by a lingering and diffuse pain so widely disproportionate to the site specific problem area that nothing in the world makes sense to me anymore.

Call it a sixth sense or whatever, but I had a feeling going into it that it would be bad.  Who comes up with this stuff anyway?  Regardless, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t the kid with baby soft skin and three pimples playing dress-up in a white coat and the cascade of emotions that immediately followed our introduction.  He couldn’t possibly be ready for something like this!  Someone else was surely coming in.  Where was his mother?  Why was he asking me to verify my birthday?  That’s none of his damn business.  It’s Tuesday.  He should be in school!

Then it hit me, like 41 bolts of lightning into the chair I was reclined and lying defenseless in below.  No one else was coming.  Furthermore, that overly confident toddler over there sharpening his tools was my surgeon and I am old enough to be his mother.  In one fell swoop, the world as I knew it and my place within it seemed implausible and foreign.  Newsflash granny!  He’s not young.  You’re old.  Not old old, but old enough to now require routine procedures performed by a kid half your age designed to fix problem areas that have simply worn out because of the aging process alone.  Ugh.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.  I go above and beyond with daily routine practice to specifically avoid shit like this.  Furthermore, I refuse to be the exception to the rule unless it involves lottery tickets or extended family gatherings.  Here’s a random idea!  Why don’t we all take turns side swiping each other with one of grandma’s old cast iron frying pans.  You know, the ones you can’t even buy anymore without some sort of special permit because they double as weapons.  At least in that scenario I’d have an outside mark to account for my pain.  It’s definitely a stretch, but maybe in that instance if I were to desperately plead to my children to refrain from behavior that would require me to raise my voice because mommy’s face hurts so unbelievably bad when she speaks they would actually listen to me because well, I would have a visible welt and maybe (God willing) a gaping wound to show for it and not just be standing there like an idiot with a bruised ego and face that could double as half a chipmunk.

I digress.

It hurts to talk.  The involved postoperative tissue stretches out when I open my mouth, even just a little bit, and this is very uncomfortable.  Furthermore, the intensity of discomfort directly correlates to my voice volume.  I explained this to them in no uncertain terms.  I just don’t want to yell.  Is that too much to ask?  In the whole scheme of life, I don’t think so.  The only expectation is to behave in a manner that doesn’t warrant yelling from an outside party.  They don’t have to be perfect.  I am capable of restraint and gentle reminders.  I am not a monster.  But repeated poor behavior at some point leads to yelling.  It’s simple math.  Do they like it when I yell?  Do they want to be the direct cause of my pain?  Why can’t they exist in the same space for five minutes without an on-call crisis intervention unit awaiting in the wings?  It’s not that they don’t care about me.  They are not monsters.  They just don’t all care about me at the same time.  With three of them, this leaves room for multiple scenarios of non-caring and poor judgment and thus more yelling.

I really shouldn’t be taking this out on them.  They are not programmed to give a shit yet about much of anything besides their own immediate gratification and/or whose turn it is to pick out the next new box of band aids.  I get it.  Someday their concern for my well-being will be sincere.  They will ask me how my day was and genuinely care that I found it quite bothersome that the man-child who I swear was playing the clarinet at my daughter’s middle school band concert last week just performed minor senior citizen surgery on me like a goddamn champ.  He was so professional and caring and only a tiny bit condescending…

“Are you sure you still feel that?  It’s unusual to still feel it at this point.”

And I was like, “Yep.  That’s why I jumped off the table just there.”

And he was like, “Oh I’m so sorry, do you need a break?  Maybe we should reschedule?”

And I was like, “I’ve had 3 kids okay?  One almost without an epidural.”

And he was like, “Okay, well, uh, are you sure ma’am?  I haven’t had to do this in a while.”

And I was like, “You’re ten years old.”

And then I was like, “O.M.G.  He thinks I’m a fragile old person!”

And he was like, “You’re doing a great job.”

And I was like, “I’m so proud of you.”

Extreme pain and shock kicked in shortly thereafter.

There will definitely be a bill.  I was also promised a crown in a couple of weeks for good behavior.  My kids will be so jealous.

Geriatric or not, I’m going to be a queen.  Nothing else matters.

 

 

 

Mr. Teddy and Me

It’s 11:00 in the morning and I just woke up from a nap.  I did it yesterday too.  It wasn’t so much a nap as it was hiding under the covers in a shivering ball of uncertainty for an hour or so, but surprisingly a mid-morning nap sounds less pathetic, so I’ll stick with that.  It’s where I generally go to think when there is big thinking to be done.  Let’s face it, if there was ever a time for a big idea, yesterday would’ve been it.  Or today.  Pretty soon it will be tomorrow and the expectation will be for something even bigger.  A gigantic idea.  What if tomorrow passes and it becomes the next day and I still haven’t even formed a micro idea.  Before I know it, it’ll be the weekend AND NOTHING EVER GETS DONE ON THE WEEKEND!  What if too much time passes and the mere idea that I might have a big idea disappears like the trash on garbage day, never to be seen or heard from again?  What if I already literally threw something away that would’ve inspired my big idea?  That’s it!  I’m going to start saving everything!  That’ll definitely help.  More clutter will provide more possible inspiration for ideas.  Brilliant idea!

Maybe it’s the complete darkness underneath the covers that’s inhibiting my big idea?  That’s plausible.  Maybe I should open the blinds or consider turning the side table lamp on low?  Maybe I need an actual light bulb on to have an actual light bulb moment?  What an idiot idea.  The light stays off.

Thank God.  I look terrible.

Maybe I should weed out the bad ideas first and start thinking about the things I definitely do not need, like a hug.  Trust me.  Someone tried it.  He almost died.

Maybe it’s the sudden lack of daily structured chaos?  Empty space and time with no clear direction.  I am not doing laundry.  Laundry is not a big idea, nor is it the first thing I want to tell people I did with my alone time.  I will sit here upside down in my bed tangled up in a ball of sweaty sheets FOREVER (until the kids get home) before I start doing laundry.  Oh look, Mr. Teddy!  How’d you get down here?  Why do you always smell so weird?  Why am I talking to you?

It’s the kid thing.  They’re gone.  Left on the bus yesterday morning one by one by one (even the littlest one this time) with their eager smiles and crazy ambitions ready to embark on a new school year with overwhelming zeal.  I smiled, gave them all a hug, saw them off on the bus, waved until they could no longer see me, and proceeded to swim home in a sea of ugly tears, alone.

“Get up!,” I thought.  “Do something!  You have no excuse to not do something now!  Take a bath.  Read a book.  Search your soul woman!  Opportunity awaits!”

Nothing.

I don’t know what to do.

It’s too quiet.  I followed a housefly into the next room simply to have an annoying sound within earshot, just like the good old days (yesterday and every day before that times infinity).

I miss them.  What the hell is wrong with me?

Like a boss

It was definitely not a spur of the moment decision.  I’ve been thinking about it for quite some time.  The risks were obvious.  Judgment, guilt, shame, humiliation, just to name a few.  I’ve heard whispers of it behind closed doors in certain social circles, but have questioned whether or not a person could actually get away with such a thing.

“You can really do that, and it’s legit,” I would ponder, followed by the obvious retaliatory thought any decent mother would have, “I could never do that.”

Turns out I can, and I did, and I took another one down with me in the process.

Text messages were exchanged and the operation was promptly set into motion.  We were fully committed.  Over thinking was not an option.

As we approached the drop off room for our belongings, my heart was racing like it never had before.  Adrenaline surged throughout my entire body in one tidal wave after the next, drowning any message of reason and/or self-doubt my brain was drastically attempting to fire.  Beads of sweat began to form along my brow as the physical signs of my desperation began to show.

“You can turn around.  It’s not too late.  You’ve done nothing wrong,” whispered the entire universe.

Another herculean wave of adrenaline bitch slapped them all to their wobbly chicken shit knees.

“Proceed my lady,” suggested the fairylike woman sitting atop my right shoulder wearing a surprisingly modest swim top and speaking in a British accent for added appeal.

The locked gate was a definite reassurance.  They would surely try to escape.  This will keep them in, I mean safe.

The stone faced teenager from behind the desk wasted no time in beginning her interrogation.

“Can I have your card ma’am?”

I should’ve already had it out.  I was told in no uncertain terms to already have it out.  I thought I did!  Where is it?  Calm down!  They’re going to think you’ve never done this before!  Everyone is looking at you!  FIND YOUR CARD AND HAND IT TO HER YOU FUCKING IDIOT!

“Silly me, here you go sweetie pie,” I said, because apparently I am now 85 years old and from the south.

I hand it to her, but not before she has clearly grown tired and annoyed with the lack of familiarity I have with the entire, and actually quite simple, exchange process.

As she disapprovingly scans my card, she continues on with the questionnaire formalities.

“And where will you be?”

Silence.

“Where will you be in the building ma’am?”

She’s holding a pencil.  She’s going to write it down!

I had so much I wanted to say, “You don’t know.  You’re so young.  It’s hard sometimes.  I barely ever get to talk to adults.  It’s just for a little bit.  My husband has been gone all week.  Look at all the neat things in here.  This is way more fun than where I’m going anyway.  Please don’t judge me.  Please.”

Instead I took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eyes, and as a cloud of diffidence slowly picked me up off the floor and floated me toward the exit, I sheepishly answered, “The pool.”

Maybe she’ll think I’m exercising?  Doing laps or something?  It’s plausible.  This is a gym after all, I thought to myself while suddenly wishing I owned a swim cap for the first time in my entire life.

I kept walking, fighting any urge I had to turn back, trying to appear aloof and fitness-like.

I looked to my sister for any small sign of encouragement.

“This is the best idea you have ever had,” she said as she confidently stepped toward the light with her head held high and towel draped across her shoulder like a goddamn boss.

The next thirty seven minutes were spent lounging outside on an actual lounge chair next to a glorious sea of aqua blue, all the way down at the deep end, where the adults sit, and as far away from the zero depth entry point chaos as we could possibly get.

We had a real life uninterrupted conversation.  I got to actually look at my sister’s face while I talked to her.  She’s so pretty.  I forgot about her high forehead, just as I’m sure she had forgotten about my right temple mole and uneven nostrils.  We felt the warm sun on our pale cheeks and took notice of the beautiful white fluffy clouds floating overhead for the first time in at least a decade.  I thought one looked like a turtle.  She thought it resembled a shirtless Jon Snow in battle.  And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed.

“We should probably go get them now.”

“Yep.”

So we did.  But not before we made the arduous yet extremely satisfying climb to the top.  Step after step after muscle pounding step until we reached the unreachable summit.  A place that has until now only existed in our wildest dreams.  We sat atop for a brief moment, looking down on the world, the world we would soon return to, trying not to be phased by the single file line of impatient eagerness waiting directly behind.

And then we did it.  We let go.  We let go of our guilt, of our shame, of societal expectations, and our basic human dignity as we plunged to the bottom of the kiddy slides without a care in the world or knowledge of the teenage lifeguard waiting to catch us in the water below.

“I won!,” I screamed.  Because I did.

It was clearly time to leave.  Thoughts of our moppets were back with a vengeance as we made our walk of shame exit from the water, weaving in and out of frantic mothers (who I’m now certain hate us) and their hundreds of screaming offspring splashing haphazardly around with their godforsaken noodles waiting for their next unsuspecting victim to whip upside the head.

Not today asshole.

As we hopped on the guilt train with sun kissed cheeks to retrieve our most prized possessions, we began to wonder if we did the right thing.  Are we terrible mothers?  Our dear children must hate us for leaving them amongst strangers.  Dear Lord, they’re probably in a corner sobbing uncontrollably this very minute!  What kind of mothers would do such a thing?  “We’re coming children!”

They didn’t want to leave.  We got there and they didn’t want to leave.  One actually hid from us and another one refused to don her shoes as she gave us the death stare from across the room.  I’m pretty certain we wouldn’t have thought this 38 minutes ago, but she’s so darn cute when she’s mad.

They didn’t miss us.  They didn’t want us.  They didn’t need us.  They were having fun without us. I wonder if they care what their peers would say?  How dare they not want to be with us every single moment of every single day?  How dare they enjoy a short break from our constant nagging, I mean company.  We are their mothers!  And more importantly, we could’ve stayed longer!

Don’t worry kids, we’re cool.  Next time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Water balloons

It’s not like I’ve been blindsided or anything.  The writing has been on the wall for months.  I guess I was just hoping that it was a phase.  That he’d come to his senses or at the very least not be so rude about it.  I talk a pretty tough game, but I am incredibly crumbly on the inside.  I have feelings, just like everybody else.  I may not wear them on my sleeve for the whole wide world to see, but I have them.  Like right now, I feel betrayed and somewhat bitter.  I know it’s all part of the deal, but still.  I like to think there are people out there who still enjoy my company.  I can be a pretty cool cat if the circumstances are just right.  I know for a fact at least one person would even call me “fun.”

SO THERE!

My baby boy is bored to tears with me.  Keeps asking to play with Jimmy down the block.  Can I go to Jimmy’s house?  Can Jimmy come over?  Can you call Jimmy’s mom and set up a play date?  I want to go to Jimmy’s!  Every five minutes.

I get why Jimmy appears more fun than me.  For one, I don’t play cars and Jimmy does.  For whatever reason, the part of my brain responsible for imaginary play became completely nonfunctional after I turned the age of ten.  No amount of trying to access it is helpful to any party involved, and in some cases can make the situation terrifically worse.  I completely suck at it.  It’s not like I haven’t tried.  Furthermore, I know the well-meaning and sweet grandmother at the store would wisely say, “They grow up fast.  Play cars now because one day you will wish that you did, and you will really miss the invitation.”

I beg to differ kind granny, but I’ll keep you posted.

I do other things though.  I read books.  I play catch.  I bake cookies.  I ride a bike.  I can facilitate art projects.  I know how to play ‘hide and seek’ and most traditional board games.  I can drive to places, like the park, or the pool, or Costco.

“I don’t want to go to Costco again!  Costco is sooooooo boring!”

He used to enjoy shopping with me.  He would beg to go with.  And I didn’t have to entertain him or offer rewards in the process.  We would just delight in being in each other’s company.  Now I have to give him reasons to want to hang out with me.  It’s like a daily job interview where I’m sitting across the room from him, wringing my sweaty hands, desperately providing reasons why I am qualified for the position, while silently bad mouthing poor little Jimmy in my head.

I sat in a chair and let my son throw 60 water balloons at me last week.  Sixty.  Get my drift?  After I was attacked from all angles, was cold and wet, I was given nary a sympathy hug.  I didn’t get a towel either, just a forlorn soul wanting a real playmate.  After that, I built a personalized car wash out of a cardboard vodka box from Costco for him to zoom his cars in and out of.  He did it seven times.  It took me an hour to build it.

“Can I go to Jimmy’s house now?”

“Not today Bud.”

“Well then can you have a baby brother for me?” 

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Mommy has had as many babies as she is physically, emotionally, and mentally capable of dealing with.” 

“What does that even mean?” 

“It means Mommy’s heart is full.”

Even if I wanted another baby (which I unequivocally do not), someday that baby will be almost 5, thriving in every way possible, heading to Kindergarten in a few short months, and wanting absolutely nothing to do with me.  I can’t keep having babies!  It hurts, and they’re expensive.

We have one month left together before the shit show of summertime ensues with the other two heartless miscreants who have selfishly moved on without their mother.  One month.  The pressure is mounting.  His immediate future with countless jimmies is planned.  Mine is not.

I have feelings too!  Who’s going to be my Jimmy when I want to play cars?

Kiss my ass grandma.

 

 

Floating band aids

Mind over matter. Words to live by indeed.

There are certain things as an adult that I can choose not to do. The ability to make choices based on one’s preferences and/or inability to engage in less than desirable activities simply because I don’t want to is one of the highlights of being a grown up.  For instance, I can choose not to eat at a buffet style anything, for the rest of my life.  I can choose not to dip into the community Skittle bowl that adorns a  random conference room table without answering to anyone.  No one else is affected.  I simply walk away and get on with my life.

It becomes a bit tricky when you become a parent. I don’t want to intentionally pass along any irrational fears to my children, so I make a conscious effort to bury them way deep down inside.  Should nature overcome nurture or should they come to their senses and choose to avoid public restroom door handles on their own volition, so be it.  Until then, I will put my game face on, set realistic expectations, allow my kids to be kids, and take one for the team when the call comes in.

Spring break water park fun here we come!

The kids were so excited, and why wouldn’t they be? This is a kid vacation.  No adult over the age of 25 chooses to put themselves in this type of situation unless they have children and/or are clinically insane.  It’s part of growing up.  The fun parts slowly get replaced with insight, general awareness, and looming fear.  Decent parents choose to overlook their selfish tendencies and instead put their children’s needs and desires first.  I, if anything, am a decent parent.  My kids undoubtedly had a blast, I physically appeared as though I was doing the same, and my children will store this event in their long-term memory bank with the rest of their delightful childhood memories from now until eternity.

Do I wish that I wasn’t so uptight? You have no idea, but that ship has sailed, so let’s move on with today’s lesson plan.

Survival tips for the not so chill parent.

The hotel room: The key to a happy stay?  Low expectations.  Let’s be real here.  This is a zoo sans the locked cages.  Animals run free, exploring their terrain, feeding off the land, scratching at will, and smearing pizza sauce everywhere. The room is a threat and serves only as a launch pad.  Get in and get out.  Spend as little time in there as possible and only go back when it’s dark, you have become severely disorientated, and are so ridiculously tired that you could/would sleep in a heaping pile of garbage.

The wave pool: My kids really loved this one.  Maybe it was seeing the pure panic on their mother’s face each and every time a tidal wave would forcefully drag her beautiful young children under water, maybe it was the steady wave of bodily crud exiting unseen crevices floating aimlessly around desperate for host reattachment, or maybe it was the floating hair (spiral shaped and dark in color) that rivaled the actual amount of water per surface area. It’s not yours, but what a nice thought.

The lazy river: What’s not to love here?  You’re floating in packs of strangers going around and around and around and around.  You want to get out?  Lol!  Sit down asshole.  You’re not going anywhere.  And that floating band aid you’re trying so desperately to avoid?  It’s coming, and you can be certain, he’s bringing his friends.

The hot tub: If sitting in a bubbleless lukewarm cesspool that has exceeded its capacity twice over is your thing, then bring your fruity umbrella cocktail and undiapered toddler on in and join the party.  The more hair on your body, the better.  Please be sure to rub up next to your neighbor and maintain physical contact at all times, because after all, we may be perfect strangers, but we’re all here for the same thing.  Relaxation.

The water slides: You can get maximum enjoyment from this scenario if the lines are long and you are forced to stand in a never-ending stairway to heaven miles and miles up in the sky.  The steady drip drop on your forehead of crotch juice from up above might seem like unnecessary torture at the time, but rest assured when you finally reach your destination and get to nestle into the tube that maintains a consistent 1/4 inch full of “water” and has once occupied every single ass crack in the history of mankind and then participate in the three second plunge to your probable death, it’ll all be worth it.

The kiddy pool: This might seem like a safe bet, but don’t kid yourself.  It’s the bathroom.

Take five: If you need a break from the water activities at the exact same moment that every other occupant does, then head on over to the arcade.  Be sure to take a second mortgage out on your home before doing so though, because that crane game with the giant ball prize is going to kick your ass and it will get personal.

Once every family member has a ball they don’t want to carry around, go ahead and bounce them all over to the the lazer tag area. It’s a great family activity and guaranteed fun for all ages.

“Mommy, you shot me.”

“That’s the point of the game honey. Here, shoot me.” 

“But Mommy, you shot me.”

“Oh my God! I shot you!  I’m so sorry!  I’m a terrible mommy!”

Turning in: Need a break from the stress before bedtime?  Grab a bag of Cheetos, head back to the hot tub for a handful of hugs without commitment, and bury that shit way deep down inside as you watch your children frolic in the sea of hairy band aids and make lasting memories with their super chill mom who just bravely upped the ante and dropped a Cheeto on purpose in the whirpool.

See you tomorrow mister.

Folding socks

A real life grown-up called me smart the other day.  Not ‘smart’ in the context of being a wiseass either.  The smart that means intelligent, and insightful.  My reaction was basically one of shock.  I sat there bemused and disoriented desperately trying to find a socially appropriate response.  Instead I cried.  At least three real tears.  Not because someone actually thought that I have a well-functioning brain, but because I must’ve done or said something that not only provided evidence to support that comment but also warranted verbal acknowledgement.  I wonder what it was, and more importantly, if I can do it again?

It happens less and less these days, where the parts of my brain responsible for metacognition begin firing at a level that will actually produce meaningful thoughts and ideas. It’s a direct result of the lifestyle I’ve created for myself as a stay at home mom.  I’d love to blame my children, or better yet, my husband, but (sigh) the fault is my own.  Whereas I used to actively seek opportunities that encourage higher level thought processes, I now opt for folding socks.

Of course I felt like an idiot when I started crying. The poor woman at the receiving end of it will certainly choose her words more carefully when addressing me in the future.  I wanted to hug her, really tight, and ask her to be my new best friend.

I don’t quite know how to explain it, but here’s a meager attempt. I threw a surprise birthday party a few weeks back for my 8 year old daughter’s lifelong best friend and loyal companion.  I bought a balloon, a gift, and even posted a celebratory picture of her on Facebook.

She’s a stuffed animal, and I use the word “stuffed” loosely as she could easily double as a hand towel these days, but I digress.

I threw a surprise birthday party for a stuffed animal puppy conveniently named ‘Puppy.’ I pulled it off without a hitch, and couldn’t have been more proud of myself.

I don’t know why it’s important to me. Feeling smart.  After all, the mere definition of it is widely disputed and most certainly varies depending on the audience.

Yet…

The last time I was even loosely complimented on my intelligence involved my oldest daughter falling on her knees in utter amazement because I remembered where she put her shirt, “Mom! You’re such a genius!”  The time before that was a shout out from my four year old son for reminding him to put his underwear back on after he took a shit, “How did you know that Mom?!” My middle child bypasses me altogether now in favor of the know-it-all wannabe she lovingly calls Siri. “Hey Siri, what’s 2+2?”

I knew that one!

Hey Siri, where’s the matching pink Hello Kitty sock asshole?

And a real life grown-up called me smart the other day.

 

 

Dinosaur Dan

I can’t do it anymore! I am a grown person and you cannot make me do it.  There’s too many!  For the love of God, look at that stack!  It’s an unrealistic expectation and I’m putting my foot down.  There’s gotta be at least 27 there!  What the hell is wrong with you?  Don’t look at me like that either, all sweet and innocent and eager for knowledge.  Turn your head away when I’m talking to you.  You’re too damn cute and I can’t do this while looking at your face.

Here’s the deal. I just don’t like dinosaurs.  Never really have.  Any interest and/or curiosity I once had in them is definitely gone as a direct result of our special reading time together.  I know you really like them and this is super hard for me to say, but I cannot read anymore dry facts about the Compsognathus.  I shouldn’t even know about that one.

No one should.

It’s not so much the whole realm of dinosaur literature that I need to get away from, but much more so those that are specifically categorized as non-fiction. I think I’m allergic at this point and/or at the very least have developed ‘situation specific narcolepsy.’  By the time I know what’s happening, I’ve put myself in a coma after page two.  And then I see you sitting there so engaged and interested and it makes me feel so unbelievably bad about myself.  It’s not fair.  Shame on you.

I hate to state the obvious and/or insult your intelligence at this point, but you’re 4 years old. Maybe take it down a notch and choose your reading material accordingly.  Soon enough you will be a fluent reader.  When that day comes, I will fully support your decision to dig deeper and further explore the 700-900 additional classifications of dinosaurs out there just waiting to be read about on the shelf.  They’re not going anywhere, trust me.

I’m not trying to squash your curiosity and/or interest level either, so do not even go there.  Here’s the hard truth.  One fact based book about a Megalosaurus is the same as another fact based book about a Megalosaurus.  The cover might look different, but the information is the same.  Capeesh?

Please don’t cry. We can read ‘Dinosaur books’ anytime, so long as the dinosaur to speak of is wearing a funny hat and the entire process involves changing the inflection in my voice at least twice to tell a story with an actual ending.

It’s nice when the dinosaur has a name too…

Like Dan.

It’s analogous to your disdain for broccoli. It gets worse over time.  Repeated exposure is not the answer, so please stop asking.  Please.

That said, I love you. Furthermore, I guarantee that if you end up being a world famous paleontologist some day, I will be front and center at your very important symposium, so unbelievably proud…and equally bored out of my fucking mind.

It’s not you, it’s me.

‘MERICA

I’m looking for something to do. Something that plays to my skill set which for the past 5 or so years has exclusively involved working with children on a 24/7 basis.  Several options come to mind, but one clearly stands out amongst the rest.

As such, I’d like to take this opportunity to announce my bid for the Presidency of the United States of America.

I feel like that should’ve been harder to publicly state, given the enormity of the sought after position. Yet I strangely couldn’t care less, and let’s face it, if you’ve tuned into current events of late, neither could you.  I will go one step further and admit that not only do I not care, I am currently thinking more about how to get my kids to eat the meatballs “with the gross gravy” that are in my oven than I am about how to gain anyone’s vote.

They won’t eat them, but that is not the point. The point is to highlight my ability to coerce infantile beings to reluctantly come to the table on a consistent basis to bellyache at record breaking levels while simultaneously fighting every instinct that I have to simply not care.

Not giving a shit = problem solved.

I, my friends, am a problem solver. “Chicken nuggets anyone?”

I am also a great liar. Little white lies are where I generally excel, but I’m good at the big ones too.  My ten year old daughter still believes in Santa.  And the Tooth Fairy. Sigh. It’s gone too far now.  I’ve done too much.  Honesty will make me look weak and idiotic.  No one votes for an idiot, especially when she’s a woman.  Right? 

I’d like to say that teaching fiscal responsibility is a mastered trait, but it appears that I pretty much suck at that too. My 8 year old daughter wouldn’t accept a dollar the other day for doing absolutely nothing because her little brother got two. Guess what?  He got three and she still thought she won.  An impromptu lesson in the value of money followed, which ended in her smugly stating before skipping off into the sunset, “You don’t need money to be happy mom.”

Perfect.

But hey, if you’re into the status quo, and let’s face it folks, who isn’t, I have zero ability to bring any sort of peace and unity to any number of ridiculous and often imagined predicaments between two or more parties. I’ve spearheaded and personally implemented several approaches, some more socially accepted than others, yet to no avail.  I’ve made peace with it.  They’re children.  Tiny human beings with even smaller brains to support their ignorant agendas.  You can’t reason with children, nor do I intend to.  They need encouragement, and prizes.  Who wants a lollipop?  Washington D.C., here I come!

As nice as the ‘hope and change’ thing sounds, I’ve learned the hard way that zero expectation leads to zero disappointment. My 5 year old son still nonchalantly eats his boogers in plain sight despite repeated and desperate public objection. “They’re yummy mommy.”

Who am I to judge personal taste?  To each his own. Ugh.

In short, my kids have always wanted to live in a house with a bowling alley. Based on the current playing field, I figured this was our best shot.

I promise to get regular haircuts and to not purposely be a ginormous prick.

Vote for me.  I’ll give you a meatball.

 

 

 

Destiny is a comfortable bitch

The anticipation has been building for months, not to mention the heated debates, sleepless nights, and general unrest that comes along with any major life decision. It was virtually unbearable at times.  Gut wrenching.  All consuming.  Mentally depleting.  We came at it from every angle possible.  The visual aids were detailed and abundant and I’m pretty sure I even did simple math in my head at one point.

The end result was a mutually agreed upon spousal decision. We were ready.

We knew what we were up against, but the preparation involved was fool proof. We entered the building together more determined than we have ever been in our entire lives as a cohesive unit.  We would be tested, that much was certain.  An impromptu side hug shoulder squeeze set everything into motion.  “Get in and get out. Let’s do this.”

Within nanoseconds we spotted that slippery bastard heading straight for us, but expected nothing less. “Don’t mention the kids,” I said. “They have nothing to do with this.”

It should have been easy. We were living the dream, simply going through the motions, awaiting the inevitable moment to drive off into the sunset with a newfound freedom, coolness, and slick factor that has been lost on us for all these years. It’s been so incredibly long.

And then it happened. We got too cocky.  It’s all a blur, but it definitely happened, and now we are left with nothing but hindsight and lingering self-doubt.

Why did we invite him into our bubble of dreams? We didn’t need and/or ask for a demonstration.  Yet there that little man-child sat way back in the distance, fumbling around like an idiot trying to prove how “comfy” he was as he choked his knees down his throat before trying to verbally speak his extremely implausible point, “See?”

I silently screamed, “Stay focused!”

But I couldn’t. He was so physically small.  My mothering instinct took over almost immediately and I frantically moved forward in an effort that I’m 100% sure saved his life.  He couldn’t breathe!

This wasn’t supposed to happen!

“Get out,” I mumbled.

We were tricked. They shouldn’t have been sitting next to each other.  They are not friends.  They have absolutely nothing in common.  Yet there it was, strategically placed for the weak to admire and adore in secret denial next to its sexy more sophisticated second cousin thrice removed.  A seductress in plain clothing, opening its doors ever so slightly, tempting us to take a perverse glimpse from our periphery and admire it’s unexceptional grandeur, if only for a moment.

Imagine an ocean of space, that if you could see beyond (which you can’t), would simply yield more goddamn space.

It shouldn’t have been so hard. We are weak human beings, completely incompetent of following through with a simple step by step plan.  Furthermore, I went against the advice of some of my nearest and dearest friends.  What was I thinking?  I never think for myself!  Alas, I did, and now the world as I know it has forever changed.  There is no turning back.  Back room deals were made.  Money has changed hands.  Dear God, I think I signed something!

In the end, it was my decision and I take full responsibility.  I don’t understand it, but I refuse to judge myself as a result.  There is no substitute for space.  Period.  Nor does it matter that not one of my three children plays soccer and/or has any small interest in pursuing it in the future whatsoever.  My identity has been perpetually solidified and I am strangely at peace.  While I’m not particularly proud of myself, I am surprisingly just okay with admitting that we checked what little was left of our preexisting phatness at the door for all eternity and bought another (insert expletive of choice here) minivan.

It’s white like heaven and floats on the road like a cloud in the sky. And I will never be cool again.

 

Christmastime with Buddy

Season’s Greetings to those who engage in merrymaking at this special time of year!

We are eyeball deep into what we like to call the Christmas season around here.  The music, the lights, the perfect ornamental displays scattered about the house bearing the invisible “do not touch or else” signage, the non-verbal threat the mere presence of a shady elf figure represents, all equally playing an important role in the ever-present joy that continues to erupt out of our chimney in a mystical cloud of glittery holiday cheer.  Good luck getting down that bad boy Santa, it’s full.  Find another route!

My name is Buddy and I’m 4 years old. This is my first year being truly present in the holiday season.  Despite the continuous loop of Christmas music my mom has playing at a distasteful volume in the van, it seems pretty cool.  I saw Santa at the mall the other day and gave him a half-hearted wave from five stores down and one story up while sucking my thumb and holding onto mommy’s neck for dear life (I love my mommy). I also love cars, monster trucks, superheroes, dinosaurs, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  I’m cute as a button and growing like a weed.  Not sure why because I never eat my veggies.  Ever (Eew). My favorite words are “poop” and “butt crack.” Just try not to smile when they come out of my adorable little mouth contextually sound.  Consider it a dare.

Miss K turned 10 this year and is currently in her last year of elementary school (YIKES!). I really like Miss K a lot.  She’s so nice to me and just an all around great big sister.  She keeps busy with basketball, piano, choir, and mothering me where mommy falls short.  She enjoys unloading the dishwasher and eats all of her vegetables with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.  In lieu of Christmas gifts this year, she is asking that everyone donate to save the pandas (Yep). She’s a good kid and “behavior wise” the best in our bunch by a mile (Mom and Dad included).  She was born that way.  I guess you either got it or you don’t.  Let’s move on to ‘the empress.’

Princess Mae just turned 8, but I’m sure you got the memo on that already. She and I have absolutely nothing in common.  Regardless, I make it my daily goal to connect with her on a brotherly level in so many special ways.  It’s a thankless job, but I’m highly committed.  The sparkle that Her Highness brings into our lives on a daily basis is simply beyond measure.  Trying to contain it at a manageable level can prove to be a bit of a parental challenge.  She simply wasn’t made to live under such ordinary conditions.  She was meant to run free in a make-believe land of rapping unicorns, storytelling miniature pink poodles handing out free cotton candy, and an inviting sea of cool chocolate milk to take a dip in when the stress of it all becomes a bit too much to bear.  We’ve collectively put forth our best efforts as a family to encourage a stronger grip on reality, but the resistance we are met with far exceeds anything we are humanly capable of successfully dealing with.  As a result, we regrettably admit the existence of the unicorn from now until THE END OF TIME and in exchange get to keep our heads.  It’s really a no brainer.

Mommy and Daddy are doing great. They each turned 40 this year and handled it better than expected, given their age.  Daddy continues to keep everyone guessing in regard to what his job really entails as it seems to change on a weekly basis, but it’s all just part of his cover.  Only I know the truth.  He’s Spiderman…but don’t tell Mommy.  She’ll just worry.

Mommy is the best mommy in the whole entire world. Granted I have no point of comparison, but she means well, she tries really hard, and thank goodness she’s not a quitter.  She hopes to one day be hailed ‘a satirical genius’ after writing a book about nothing parenting related.  I’d buy it…if she let me…and gave me some money.

May your season be filled with laughter, love, good health, humble gratitude, a little sparkle, just the right amount of Christmas music to suit your particular taste, and an easily accessible entry point for Santa Claus and his poopy butt crack.

XOXO,

Buddy (not the elf)

Married with children

My husband and I are getting reading to celebrate our eleventh wedding anniversary. I use the term “celebrate” loosely as we are basically both hoping we remember the day when it arrives and then get through it without any unforeseen drama that might interfere with our annual high five and anniversary embrace as we gaze into each other’s eyes and proclaim in perfect unison, “Fuckin A! We made it. Again. We are awesome.”

It usually ends in a heartfelt kiss. We’re very fond of one another. It’s a classic love story.

We really have nothing to complain about. We have three beautifully healthy children, a roof over our heads, income to support our extreme and lavish lifestyle, a goddamn minivan, reciprocal love, and mutual respect for one another’s less than desirable traits. Our tolerance for one another has grown and blossomed in a manner that has far exceeded even our own wildest pre-marriage dreams. We can thank our kids for that. They make it easy for us to disregard any spousal needs in lieu of their own. Gone are the days of petty adult arguments and one-upmanship. We have standards to set and must now lead by example.

When thinking of the evolution of our marriage, the following term comes to mind. Tater tot hotdish.  I’m no marriage expert, nor should I be, but personal life lessons learned from the aforementioned can be applied across the board to any couple looking for insight and/or relationship advice from someone who’s been in the trenches and made it out a stronger and less self-serving person.  See below for specifics.

Grow up. There was a point in time when the “how to” specifics of preparing this creamy casserole dish tested the very limits of our proclaimed love for one another. My way was right, his way was wrong, he refused to see it, a wooden spoon may or may not have been flung forcefully across the kitchen, and we didn’t talk for days. Perfectly reasonable and highly relatable no doubt, but violence is never the answer. Especially in front of the children.   

Mix it up. Everything (except the tots of course). Marriage cannot be successful if you don’t try your absolute best to form a cohesive unit with your partner in a determined effort to mesh together as one being. Layering ever so carefully to avoid blending is not only a waste of time, but discriminatory, tasteless, and just plain wrong.

Agree to disagree. Simply don’t make it. Agree to disagree and never ever enjoy the gloriousness of tater tot hotdish in each other’s company ever again. Ever.

Life’s a game. Have fun with it. Prepare two pans individually, but in each other’s company.  Maybe turn on some music and open a bottle of wine to accompany the mood.  Not only will you be sharing space in the kitchen working toward the same common goal, but the eye fucking alone that exists as you both dip into your deliciousness at the end of it all is sure to bode well in the bedroom if you ever start speaking to one another again.

Extend an olive branch. Don’t be a dick. Give the other person’s way a shot. You fell in love and married him/her after all. But add celery. Big chunks. Everyone loves a surprise.

In a pinch, cry. My mom taught me this one. Don’t let your kids see it though. That would just be setting a bad example of how to get your own way. Be a role model, but honor thy mother.

Plan a family meal.  Bring everyone to the table.  You’ll forget what you were arguing about and form a united front in a matter of seconds if you go down this painfully disappointing road. Been there, done that times infinity. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  Let’s eat.

“What is that Mom?”    

“Tater tot hotdish.”

“It looks gross. And why is it all mixed together like that? I’m not eating!”

Be a good sport. Glance across the table, raise your glass, give a heartfelt “you win asshole” nod to your partner, and call it a day.

Married with kids, in a nutshell.

Cheerleaders

What is it about kids? They can lighten any serious situation with a bat of an eye, the hint of a giggle, an impromptu, “I love you mommy,” just when you need it the most. They’re funny too. Even when they’re not trying to be. “Mom, I’m never going to eat poop again.” I don’t know how, where, when, or most importantly why he ate poop, but I feel good about his decision to not do it again.

To steal a line from a well-known past television show, “Kids say the darndest things.”

Ah, indeed.  I can be having the worst day ever, take one look at them, and suddenly not have a care in the world. Poof! All of my worries and insecurities are washed away in an instant.  Motherhood is special that way. It does something to a person’s soul. It’s a slow process and those closest to you might not even notice a difference. They might suspect something is different, but there’s nothing obvious to really stick a pin in. Much like if you were to tint your eyebrows just a shade too dark. People might examine you more closely eager for a clear answer, but they won’t be able to really say what the hell is wrong with your face with any bit of confidence, unless the “they” we are speaking of are my children. They’re very talented observers. I would go so far as to call them gifted, but now I’m just bragging, and I hate parents like that.

While they don’t necessarily thank me as often as I would like for the insurmountable shit that I do on a daily basis that goes virtually unnoticed, they demonstrate their gratitude in other special ways. Depending on the delivery, they can be real confidence boosters for someone like me who doesn’t generally get out much.

“Mom, is that a red pea on your face? Can I touch it?“ Again with the humor. So unpredictably funny and a great use of the imagination to boot. It’s a valid question really. Why do I have the marks of adolescent puberty growing on my face? I’m almost 40 for fuck’s sake. And no one’s touching anything! It hurts.

“Mom, why do you have eyelashes growing on your legs?” I love inquisitive little minds, almost as much as I love cool weather and long pants.  God bless the Midwest.

“Mom, do you have a mustache?” Until this very moment in time I was not aware that I did, but turns out after close examination, I absolutely do. It’s like living with that special best friend(s) who has no real regard for your feelings, but will tell you in a heartbeat that you have a piece of lettuce stuck between your two front teeth in an effort to save you from any further public humiliation that automatically comes along with just being in their immediate presence.

“Do you use teeth whitener mom?” An open ended question that could be interpreted one of two ways, but the suggested intent is crystal clear based on the tone. This type of inquiry is second only to the statements that begin with, “No offense Mom, but….”

“Your armpits smell mom.”  I did not invite them into my bubble, yet here they are, again, poking their nose around where it doesn’t belong.  I am not showering again for them.  Fuck that.  I chalk it up to the aging process (see turning 40 comment above).  Next week I’ll probably smell like my grandma’s house.  You know the smell.  Anything to give me a little physical space from time to time is cool with me.

“Ugh!  Stop dancing mom.”  My kids hate it. Behind closed doors, I capitalize on that shit. It’s funny, because I can’t dance.  Tit for tat kids. Two words. “Stanky Leg.” Boom.  Who’s the boss now?

“Why don’t you have a real job Mom?” I guess it’s a valid question from a kid’s perspective. I could be the mom who starts crying and then delves into a 30 minute explanation of how my job is the most important job in the world because doing what I do on a day to day basis is filled with endless rewards, gratitude, and reasons to do nothing but smile all the live long day. But I generally don’t enjoy talking to myself, and quite frankly, I’m sick of the sound of my own voice.

Instead, I will choose to pick my own zits, not shave my legs, rub vinegar in my pits, and drink yet another glass of teeth staining red wine.

I know the risks.  Leave me alone.  Mommy’s pretty on the inside.

Job application

It has begun.

The speculation. The guessing. The anticipation and excitement that typically leads up to a very well-thought out response to the question everyone and their pet goat has started to ask based on the fact that my youngest child will be entering Kindergarten next fall.

“So are you going to get a job?”

Several responses come to mind, most of which would not be considered socially appropriate answers to such a seemingly innocent question. I’ve managed to bite my tongue up until this point, but it won’t last. It never does.  Ho-hum.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s on my mind too. I’ve even been working on my new cover letter, which currently reads as follows…

Dear Hiring Manager,

Thank you for this opportunity to apply for such a rewarding and fulfilling position within your company.  I have lots of skills that would compliment this position quite well.  My current strengths include multitasking, time management, conflict resolution, selective listening, eating bon bons by the fistful, mind control, filling out repetitive forms, and folding socks.

Despite any complaints they might have of my job performance in the past, I think my current staff would agree that I am a real bucket filler as a rule.  I will list them all below as references.  It’s probably worth noting here that none of them have an actual phone, so your chances of getting a hold of them are pretty slim.  Sorry about that.  You win some, you lose some.  I also thrive on teaching life lessons through personal experience.  You’re welcome.

The job expectations were somewhat vague in your posting, so not sure what you’re expecting as far as actual physical presence goes, but I will basically be available between 9:30-2:00 on any given weekday.  I have some kids and a husband who travels for work on a frequent and often spontaneous basis.  Also, I will need some leeway with sick days and unplanned absences (“limitless” is the best word I can come up with), since this parenting duty and the logistics that go along with it will fall almost solely on me based on our family’s circumstances.  As a consolation prize, my husband gets free gourmet Biscoff cookies as a travel perk and I am not above sharing them with my co-workers (#yummo).

Working holidays would be a pain in my ass, so if we could just avoid that altogether, that’d be great.  That said, I’m a real go-getter.  I get shit done, regardless of hangover level.  I also have a Master’s degree, so that’s sure to be good for something, right?  LOL (winky face).  I had a license to practice something a while back too, but I don’t want to limit myself to days of yore.  I’m really up for anything, so long as it boosts my overall confidence and doesn’t enforce any sort of dress code above and beyond jammie level.  It’s not necessarily a deal breaker, but would certainly be a huge inconvenience and force me to at the very least look around elsewhere before accepting your shitty offer.

If background checks are your thing, it might be worth mentioning before googling me that I have a blog attached to my name somewhere out there in cyberspace that may or may not be offensive to some/many based on their predisposition to appreciate sarcasm and the use of curse words as frequent adjectives in general.  It’s not me though.  Unless you like that sort of thing?  In which case, you’re my new best friend.  Yay!

It should go without saying that your decision whether or not to consider me for the above mentioned position will not only affect me, but every inquiring mind out there really wanting/needing to see me have a real job.  I’d really like to give them an answer they can sleep well with at night.  With the absolute highest level of misplaced confidence, you could call me a “people person,” but now I’m just gloating.  I’ll work on that.  My word is my bond.

Basically, if you have the need for a responsible party to come in, simply fill space, and have no real responsibilities whatsoever, I’m your girl.  I can promise that this job will not be my priority, but look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience to discuss how my skills can further meet your least important needs.

Sincerely,

Just a mom

P.S.  Resume unattached,  because I forgot how to write one.

Poopyface

It seems like just yesterday.

I can still hear the screaming when I close my eyes.

I break into a cold sweat.  Again.

I open my eyes to make sure I’m not dead.

I am not.

I close my eyes and the screaming resumes.

It’s getting louder now.

I have no control.

Of it, of them, of anything.

I begin to peel the skin off of my weathered face using dull, jagged fingernails.

I should’ve clipped them days ago.

Why didn’t I?

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t hurt.

Not as much as the screaming.

So I continue,

Peeling.

I close my eyes tighter.

I am drowning in a pool of aimless indolence.

My newsfeed reeks of summer fun and smiles galore.

I want to take a picture.

I need to take a picture.

Haven’t posted for days!

Smile goddammit!

The summer sun, strangely uninviting.

I do not understand.

Moments of scheduled chaos lead to moments of nothingness.

Opportunity for imaginations to soar,

For creative power to erupt.

Hmpf!

Asshole expectations.

You can’t do something with nothing.

How dare I make them try.

I am ignorant.

A poopyface.

Unable to teach unconditional love and kind inclusion.

Their eyes, glassy with boredom.

The kind of boredom that precedes an epic battle,

Between them.

For no reason at all.

None.

Zilch.

Forced handholding on the sofa elicits torturous cries for help.

Ear piercing caterwauling.

I begin to scratch at my eyeballs,

But this physically hurts, so I discontinue.

I need not more pain.

I open my eyes and spot guacamole from a distance.

I remember that I am hungry.

Have I eaten today?

They have, 53 times give or take, but have I?

I briefly consider, but emptily recall,

We have no chips.

The chip phantom paid us a visit and left nary a crumb.

Again.

My nightmare continues.

Swells of vociferous protests beg for intervention.

I speak but no one hears me.

I scream and the world screams back.

Not at me though.

I am invisible.

Unheard.

Unseen.

Nonexistent.

I open my eyes and discover,

It is not yesterday.

It is today.

And I am ALIVE!

I heave a sigh of relief.

I hear something familiar, but choose not to listen.

I am on a mission.

A renewed purpose within reach.

So close…

Welcoming rays from the sun invite scores of possibilities.

My heart is full.

Humbling opportunity awaits.

For Poopyface, and all who obediently follow,

The chip crumb path to the end of the line.

Aha!

Summertime greetings to you and yours.

The Good Mom

I can bullshit my way out of pretty much any situation.  Sarcasm is indeed a gift and highly under-appreciated and/or utilized in my humble opinion.  It can get you out of the damnedest of predicaments without so much as batting an eyelid.  I use it a lot.  Some might argue too much, but I don’t surround myself with people who don’t get me.  It’s not good for my soul.  There’s room in the world for all kinds, and to each their own.  Thankfully, I can choose my friends.

That said, I was recently asked a question that I was unable to answer.  It happens sometimes.  In an ideal world, I would be sitting behind my computer and could take ample time to process and then write a well thought out response.  Internal processing.  This is where I excel.  I do not like to be put on the spot in public and quite frankly avoid it at all costs.  I need to think before I speak as a rule.  Give me a topic and put me behind closed doors away from everyone else and I am a goddamn genius.

On a related note, someone recently had the nerve to ask me TO MY FACE, “What is a good mom?”

I’ll be damned if I couldn’t answer it.  I sat there looking into space waiting for something/anything to roll off my tongue.

Speechless.  Awkward silence.  Nothing.

Unwanted flashbacks from college ensued.

“Great question.  A real thinker.”

Pause.

“Someone who loves their kids.”

Wow, good one Einstein.  Go back to Kindergarten.

Long story short, I couldn’t answer the question.

And then I started thinking, can anyone?  I mean really answer it in a way that would satisfy the general population and not create an uproar of debate from around the globe.  I’m not talking about the mommy wars bullshit either.  Yawn.  Just a general statement, maybe a healthy paragraph, but definitely not a book.  A book would be obnoxious.  Please don’t do it.

Please.

Here’s the deal.  I think that I am a good mom.  I think that my kids think that I am a good mom.  Yet, I have no idea how to adequately define what a good mom is in such a way that wouldn’t result in the immediate release of blood thirsty hounds to my jugular vein in three seconds flat.

I definitely know that I am not a great mom.  I roll my eyes and say “fuck” way too much behind my offspring’s back to get that badge.  Plus, I’m not on the PTO.  I definitely could be, I just don’t want to be.  It’s a choice.  There are several other examples that immediately disqualify me from waving the coveted “World’s Best Mom” flag on my doorstep as well, but I’m not in the business of self destruction, nor am I an idiot, so I’ll stop here with that.

Regardless, Good is what I aspire to be and what I am physically and emotionally capable of.

Maybe this makes me a bad mom?  Hmm???  Such a conundrum.

Maybe I should ask the world wide web what I am?  Surely someone out there knows the answer and can once and for all provide me with some clarity.  In today’s day and age, experts/critics are everywhere.  They are waiting for you to provide zero context and impart a blanket statement, such as, “I love it when my house is clean.”  Seems perfectly harmless, but I guarantee that this seemingly innocent statement (used here hypothetically and solely for purposes of proving a specific point, i.e., it didn’t really happen in real life, a.k.a., I made it up) will offend at least 5 people in 3 seconds flat.

Expected responses include…

“A clean house is a sign of a wasted life.”

“Must be nice to have time to clean your whole house.  Get a job.”

“I feel sorry for your kids.  The time you spent cleaning your house, they spent making memories…without you.”

“I’m not sure what you are implying here, but I don’t like it.”

“For so many reasons, I am highly offended.”

“I love it too!  Are we sisters?!  I’ve found the most effective way to maintain a clean house without causing too much stress for yourself and/or your family is to get the kids involved.  Make it fun by creating a flow chart, or game so to speak.  And always keep Magic Eraser on hand, but locked in an overhead cabinet beyond the reach of young children, for obvious reasons.  Check out my blog for more great lifestyle tips.”

O.M.G.  Shoot me.

Let’s come at it from a different angle.  This is not a contest people.  There is no prize for “Best Mom Ever.”   There will never be a winner.  It is not an Olympic sport, but let’s imagine if it were for moment.  Just for fun.

• You stopped breastfeeding your child three months in because you got a terrible case of mastitis that led to an even more disgusting GI infection that forced you to choose between pumping and dumping for three weeks straight or formula feeding your child from that point forward…and you chose formula!  Disqualified for life, you selfish bitch!
• You slept with your infant child in your bed and had two sips of wine before doing it, at church.  The Olympics are not for you.  Jail, on the other hand…
• Oh a whim, you sent Cheetos to school for your kid’s healthy snack.  Participant ribbon revoked!
• You let your toddler sit on your lap as you backed your minivan out of the driveway.  Safety first asshole!  You will now be put to death by jellybean stoning from the annoying kid down the block who eats his boogers.
• You had the audacity to proclaim out loud that you don’t always love being a mom (which to the general public also implies that you don’t love your kids).  Find your seat in hell.  And get comfy.  You’re not going anywhere.
• You feed your children frozen Mickey Mouse shaped chicken nuggets at least twice a week.  Your children will immediately be removed from your home and be raised by the winner of the Mommy Olympics, thereby receiving quinoa and organic raw spinach for every meal from now until death.  As a consolation prize, you will receive a lifetime supply of Mickey Mouse nuggets and will, as terms of your probation, have to Facetime the local authorities at dinner time each and every night while they watch you chew (and swallow) your daily ration of at least four. 

Good God.  How did we get here as a collective group of grown women? I don’t know why I care and/or get irritated with that which is our current state of ridiculousness.  At this point, I guess I should just embrace the differences of opinions out there and come to terms with the fact that having a sense of humor when it comes to parenting is just highly frowned upon by a shit ton of people.  I’m disappointed in myself that I have let the mere anticipation of these opinions shake my confidence.  It’s truly disheartening that it has come to the point where no one person can say out loud with any bit of confidence, “I am a good parent,” without a bunch of assholes out there yelling, “Prove it!”

We have become an absolute joke.  And who doesn’t love Mickey Mouse?!

God bless the Disunited States of Parenthood.

Whodunit?

Someone read my blog the other day.  The entire damn thing.  That’s 92 posts from start to finish.  Shocking, strange, and quite honestly, humbling at the same time.

I don’t make a habit out of reading my previous crap, but this intrigued me to take a walk down memory lane.  I regretted it almost immediately.  I should’ve known better.  I compare it to a mediocre actress watching her performance in a terrible movie (e.g. Dakota Johnson in Fifty Shades of Grey).  Slowly inching lower and lower in her seat until she is literally under it, crawling through chewed bubblegum and half eaten popcorn while desperately searching for the nearest exit to finally escape the pain of her self-proclaimed “talent.”  Thank God I was in my own home.  I finally just put the wine bottle on the floor to save myself the energy it took to stand up and pour a hefty refill.

I started editing them.  On the floor.  I have no idea why.  I mean what are the odds anyone is ever going to go through all of them again?  It was either that or delete the first half of it from existence, and that is not happening.  I have put way too much time and effort into this ridiculousness.  Deleting is not an option.  Besides, how bad could they possibly be?

I quit seven minutes in.  Turns out most of the early ones are irreparable, and more importantly, not worthy of anyone’s time, let alone mine.

Which brings me to my original point.  Whodunit?  For real.  I want to know who/what read my entire blog in one fucking day.  I have my own theories.

• The President of the United States of America.  The clock is ticking.  Maybe he’s searching for hobbies?  Maybe he’s currently making a list of television shows to catch up on in his soon to be free time?  Spoiler Alert Mr. President!  John Snow dies.  (HBO asshats!)  Maybe he wants to read something mind numbing and crappy?  Maybe he hates his job and just wants to pass his last few days in office reading Jill Veldhouse’s blog while pretending to examine, with a pen in his mouth for good measure, to read a really, very, extremely, important bill that will never get passed because everyone just plain and simply sucks?   I totally get it.  Why not just choose to read something that is neon-blinking-lights-suck-ass from the get go than spend hours sifting through and trying to decipher Pig Latin bullshit only to throw it back into the bouncy house of infantile children trying to beat the shit out of a half elephant/half donkey piñata that, SON OF A BITCH!, is empty.  “Whaaat?  No candy?  Waaaaaaaaaaaaah!”  It’s a clear choice.  Thanks Prez!
• The CIA.  Bring it on assholes.  I have nothing to hide.  Well, maybe a little, but who doesn’t?  Regardless, game on.
• My daughter’s 10 year old friend.  I was informed that she has visited my blog.  Please stop dear child.  Furthermore, show your search history to your mom.  Curiosity killed the cat.  Obviously, this is not a threat.  I’m not stupid.  I have the CIA on my ass.
• My 10 year old daughter.  We have a verbal agreement.  If she reads my blog, I read her diary.  Tit for tat.
• Amy Schumer, Kirsten Wig, and Chelsea Handler (collectively, as a group).  I am happily married and as straight as an arrow.  That said, all of these bitches are at the tippy top of my hall pass list.  I like to think all three of them spent the day reading my blog together while holding hands, soaking their feet in a kiddy pool, drinking Coors Light, and eating bean dip.  P.S. Call me.
• Lorne Michaels.  Maybe he thinks I’m a good writer?  Or better yet, maybe he thinks I’m oddly funny in that dry stupid nonsensical sort of way?  I don’t necessarily have a face for television, but most of his stellar team doesn’t, so there’s that.
• A secret admirer.  Flattering, somewhat creepy, highly unlikely, yet not out of the realm of possibility.  Regardless, I feel the need to be as transparent as possible in such circumstances.  I like to boil bunnies.  Peace out.
• Miss Scarlet.  In the library.  With a candlestick.
• Barnyard animals.  Maybe my blog was printed off for kindle to warm the animals on a cool night and/or shredded and mixed with kitchen waste for hog chow? Maybe a disgruntled rat found a clip of it and brought it back to the barn to save a small pig from his ultimate demise?  Maybe Charlotte weaved a web that read Jill Veldhouse and the world took notice and saved some pig?
• Martians.  Maybe the worldwide web and all of its interweaving signals into outer space finally got the attention of an alien life form about ready to destroy earth with one flick of earwax when he intercepted a signal from Jill Veldhouse’s blog that reminded their kind that we are all, without a shadow of doubt, a bunch of absolute fucking idiots incapable of intelligence, hindsight, foresight, and/or the ability to jump around in a bounce house together without slowly killing each other off for nonexistent candy rewards.

God speed little green man.  I got this.

Piss on it

The date was set,

The sun was out.

A perfect chance,

To run about.

The park, the sand,

the slides, and more.

A giant playground,

Kids galore.

Each mommy sits

amongst her peers

In peaceful space,

Her children near.

Peers, yet strangers,

sharing time.

Smiling politely,

Being kind.

For our dear children,

We’re in the zone.

In hopes they’ll play,

Leave us alone.

Precious small bodies,

Running with glee.

Each mommy proud,

Of her child running free.

Then the wind shifted,

And my back was turned.

The look on their faces,

Judgmental, and stern.

“Oh my,” says one mommy,

“Oh wow,” says another.

“Who brought that kid (pause),

And who is his mother?”

Another one sighs,

And then rolls her eyes.

I turn my head slowly,

And part of me dies.

His ass meets my gaze,

So blinding and white.

Almost obstructing,

the stream from my sight.

Standing up proudly,

His friends circle round.

Applauding, encouraging,

He holds his junk proud.

In the sandbox, he pisses,

The one meant for play.

Some kids, now excited,

The sand is now clay.

The walk of shame next,

Quiet cussing, dry tears.

An invisible sign that reads,

“Assholes stand here.”

The piss keeps on flowing,

An arched steady stream.

Momentum soon slows,

but then picks up more steam.

Why is this happening?

What does it mean?

An FU from the sky?

Meant for just me?

Our eyes finally meet,

And a stare-down begins.

The game is not over,

But it’s clear who will win.

Wrap it up Buddy,

Show’s over, nice work.

Can’t wait to get home,

To help wipe off your smirk.

Desperate raking soon follows,

Dry sand over wet.

Mr. Cool Kid can’t quite,

Get his pants up just yet.

Poor little Buddy,

Ran into a hitch.

Newsflash dear son of mine,

I’m not your bitch.

Head in my hands,

We walk away slow.

So proud of my son,

And his golden rainbow.

Tonight, I’ll drink supper,

and reflect on the fact.

That my kid thinks it funny,

To possess zero tact.

Today’s lesson is simple,

And one not to miss.

The world is your toilet,

Go ahead, take a piss.

College 101

To my beautiful, awesome, intelligent, and soon to be a college freshmen niece,

I love you.  That’s what I want to say first.  It’s the most important point, so I want to be clear from the get go.  Because I love you, there are things I feel compelled to say to you as you begin this next very exciting stage of your life.  I certainly don’t claim to know every answer to all of life’s questions, but I am confident that I know more than you.

I probably seem pretty “old” in your eyes.  However, in my eyes, I’m your age.  No shit.  It was just yesterday that I was you.  Roll your eyes if you must.  That’s what I would’ve done at your age.  I rolled my eyes a lot back then.  I thought I knew everything.  Looking back, it turns out that 11 times out of 10, I was dead wrong about pretty much all of it.  It’s called hindsight and I have it now.  You do not.  It’s a tricky thing that will inevitably kick you in the ass more than a handful of times in your life.  You will learn from it, grow because of it, and make better decisions in the future as a result.  Awareness is a beautiful thing.  To that point, in your current state of youthfulness, YOU ARE NAIVE.  It’s perfectly normal at this juncture in your life, so no worries.  If you’re even slightly aware of it, you will be one step ahead of the game.  If you disagree, this just reinforces my point.  Trust me, you are.

As such, here are the top 10 most important  things that I want/need you to know.

1.  You will make mistakes. Lots of them, and good for you if you do.  Learn from them.  Be a better person because of them.  And then make some more, because that is how life works.  I mean, don’t intentionally be an ignoramus, because that’s just not cool.  It’s the opposite of cool.  No one likes an idiot, especially a fake one.

2.  Be yourself.  Be true to who you are. If you’re scared, challenge yourself, don’t run away.  Unless it’s from some douche bag at a party who after one glance at you announces to the world that you are his soul mate.  Then run for the hills, but not before kicking him in the balls.  He doesn’t deserve you.  No one does.  Live your life for YOU without thinking about how it affects anyone else (i.e. any guy, etc.).  You owe it to yourself to discover who YOU are first and this won’t happen overnight.  It’s a gradual process and will require some real soul searching and self exploration.  At the end of the day, your identity should not be tied to anyone else’s.  At least not yet.  When you think of yourself, you should think of YOU.  That’s it.

3.  Stay put!  The first month or two of your freshmen year is when most friendships and alliances are formed.  Being this is your first real stint away from home, this might seem like a looooooong stretch of time, but when it’s over, it’s over.  You do not get a do-over.  These critical first few weeks are when you will establish your core group of friends for the entirety of your college experience.  Make no mistake about it, if you are not present and don’t participate, you will soon feel like an outsider and then withdraw from the whole experience as a result.  It’s not easy to become part of a group once it has already been formed.  Trust me on this one.  Granted, you will miss home and everything home has to offer.  Your home (and everyone in and around it) will miss you terribly too.  It won’t be easy at times, but try really hard not to play into your insecurities.  I guarantee you that if you step outside of your comfort zone, you will not be disappointed in the long run.  Give it a real chance.  That means staying put (i.e. not leaving campus for a while).  Maybe even consider leaving your car at home for the first few months (Gasp!).  If you do get miserably homesick and desperately want to escape to some place more familiar and safe, fight the urge.  Engage yourself.  Put your phone down.  Seriously.  Put it down.  It’s okay.  Get involved in anything/everything.  Meet new people.  You’re good at it and they will be better off for knowing you.

4.  Study.  Hard.  It’s not a joke.  This shit is real.  I neglected the whole “school” portion of college for a larger chunk of time than I would care to admit.  As a result, I had to dig myself out of a giant GPA hole to even consider applying to grad school.  It was not easy, or fun.  Always try your best.  Don’t be afraid to ask for help.  Take it seriously, but not too seriously.  You see how this gets a bit tricky?  Guess what?  I failed Probability & Statistics and I tried really hard.  Sometimes you just gotta cut your losses.  You can’t be good at everything.  Occasionally, shit happens, even if you try your best.  Cut yourself a break periodically.  It’s okay.

5.  Don’t label yourself!  Explore options.  If you think you know what you want to be when you grow up, you don’t.  You’ll just have to trust me on this one.  Don’t choose a path too soon.  Keep an open mind.  Don’t limit yourself.  There are endless career opportunities out there, most of which you currently have no idea even exist.  Be a sponge and soak it all up.  You’ll have plenty of time to choose a specific path in the future.  Right now, be content dabbling in everything!  There is no limit to your potential.  I guarantee you that if you do this, you will surprise yourself.  Who knows, you could be the next highly sought after Sommelier (average pay 80,000, up to 160,000).  On that note, I expect some sort of a kickback if you choose this path.  Write that down.

6.  Have fun.  And lots of it!  You get one real college experience.  One.  Make it count.  It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity to be a pseudo-adult with a license to have an absurd amount of fun and get away with blaming college for your behavior.  Once you’re an actual adult, this changes, so enjoy it while it lasts.

7.  Be responsible. Make good choices.  Use common sense.  Don’t drink and drive and/or get in a car with anyone who does.  I know you’re smarter than that (I wasn’t), but some things just need to be said regardless of the intended audience.

8.  Stay away from the assholes. Even if they’re really cute.  Especially if they’re really cute.  Usually these are the worst ones.  They will want your attention and go to great lengths to get it.  You are beautiful.  Stunning beyond words.  Trust your instincts.  Keep your feelers out and don’t let some muscle head idiot with a six pack and a wad of 20 dollar bills fool you.  His dad probably gave him the money (Punk ass).  Make him/everyone earn your trust and do not under any circumstances grant it prematurely.  Assume that all guys you meet at college are dicks, unless they give you multiple reasons over an extended period of time to suggest otherwise.  It’s unfortunate for the good guys, but who ever said life was fair?  If they’re worth knowing, they’ll stick around to plead their case.  Patience is a virtue.

9.  Make GIRLFRIENDS first!  For real.  This is critical.  These chicks are instrumental to your happiness.  If you don’t have them, you will miss out on one of the most spectacular and rewarding aspects of the college experience.  Bitches stick together.  Word.

10.  Call your Mom. A lot!  She misses you already and you’re not even gone yet.  That said, I guarantee you that if you call her after your first week of classes and tell her that you want to come home, she will not have the strength to discourage you, so don’t do it.  You will always be her baby girl.  To be honest, I already miss you for her, but if you need to call someone regarding the above topic, call me.  Here’s what I will say to you in no uncertain terms, “Put your big girl panties on and stay the course.”  Then I’ll send you a care package with fresh chocolate chip cookies and a note that says, “Park your cute little ass right where it is and eat a cookie.  I love you.”  I’ll probably draw a smiley face and everything, but don’t misinterpret it as sarcasm, because it is not.  I might even include a twenty if you play your cards right.  I’m pretty cool that way.

Stay awesome sweet girl and if you take one message away from the above rant, please let it be the following…

Always pair yoga pants with a long flowing shirt.

It’s the new fad.

You’re welcome.

XOXO,   

Auntie Jill

Meet Virginia

I knew it was coming.  My feelers have been out for months anticipating the inevitable.  The Body Changes letter.  DUN-DUN-DUUUUN!

Childhood memories of my own immediately surface as I envision sitting nervously amongst my grade school peers trying desperately to look cool while secretly digging an escape route to China under my desk.  The word PENIS spoken out loud in and of itself sent half of the class into a statuesque shock and the other half into bouts of awkward posturing interrupted by nervous laughter.  Add the DIAGRAM on top of it and the whole world seemed to stand still.  Time stopped.  I’m sure of it.  Tick tock, tock tock, tick tock.  Yep, there it is, staring at us with its one beady little eye, embracing its good buddy the scrotum, both spelled out in bold letters on the chalkboard as if we were going to take notes for later reference or something.

What kind of a word is scrotum anyway?  It just sounds gross, regardless of its meaning.

Thankfully, I am a grown-up now and no longer have to participate in such potentially humiliating public instructional forums against my will.  My kids however, are not so lucky.  It’s an uncomfortable, yet necessary, rite of passage.  My goal as a mother is to make the process as educationally painless as possible.  I really have no problem discussing the subject matter with them.  We don’t sit around the dinner table and openly discuss human anatomy, but if they ask a question, I answer them in very general, age appropriate terms.  I tend to reference the penis in conversation as I would the elbow or any other body part, with direct eye contact and as little awkward posturing as possible.

Above all things, I want to create an open line of communication.  I’d rather have some control over their learning curve than wait for them to stumble upon it on the internet and/or from some know-it-all asshole on the school playground.  I choose to play offense.  As such, in anticipation of this glorious event, I bought my child “the book” a few weeks back with instructions to skim through it at her own pace with the added promise that her mother would sit down and read it with her and discuss it point by point at a time of her choosing down the road.

One hour later she threw the book on my lap.  “Finished Mom.”

I was expecting many questions, none of which were the following list of ten.

1. So you know those pictures of how boobs grow? What stage are you in Mom?

      “The last stage.”

      “Umm, yours don’t look like that.”

• What I wanted to say, “You are so incredibly perceptive and spot on dear child.  This is what 4 decades of basic life and 3 breast feeding children will do to your boobs.  It pretty much sucks.  I know they look like they should have a category of their own or maybe they don’t even qualify as breasts anymore.  Regardless, thank you for stating the obvious and giving me one more reason to never walk around the house naked again.”
• What I actually said, “This is a cartoon illustration and cartoons aren’t real.  Nobody’s look exactly like that.  It’s a generalization.”

2. So do you even need to wear a bra?

• What I wanted to say, “Fuck you.”
• What I actually said, “Probably not, but it’s socially appropriate and it makes mommy feel better about herself.”

3. What do you call that stuff that leaks into your underwear again?

• What I wanted to say, “Vaginal discharge.”
• What I actually said, “Vagina juice.”  What can I say, I froze.

4. What is Virginia juice Mom?

• What I wanted to say, “It’s pronounced Vagina honey.”
• What I actually said, “It’s pronounced Vagina honey.”

5. Middle child pipes in from a distance, “Do I have a Virginia Mommy?

• What I wanted to say, “It’s pronounced Vagina!  And yes, all girls have one.”
• What I actually said, “Go play.”

6. Middle child who never does as told, “What’s a Virginia Mommy?”

• What I wanted to say, “Stop saying Virginia!  It’s VAGINA!  VAGINA! VAGINA! VAGINA! VAGINA! VAGINA!”
• What I actually said, “It’s a state honey.”

7. Why is it called the “Public Area” mommy? Because (nervous pointing and disgusted eye roll),  it should not be public at all!

• What I wanted to say, “It’s actually called the “Pubic Area” sweetie, named for the bone residing in that general area.”
• What I actually said,  “Exactly!”

8. What does menstrate mean?

• What I wanted to say, “It means that once a month hundreds of sleeping ninjas in your gut will awaken with a vengeance and try to claw their way from the inside out.  You will feel like punching everyone in the face, your own face will sprout unsightly things, you will have to wear a diaper in and/or outside of your ass, and no one around you will give a shit.”
• What I actually said, “Every woman does it.  It’s a gift.  This is what allows us to bear children.”

9. Does Daddy do it?

• What I wanted to say, “Nope, lucky son of a bitch!”
• What I actually said, “Nope, guys don’t get to do it.  Only girls.  We’re special that way.”

10. What does Daddy get to do?

• What I wanted to say, “Smile and have a penis.”
• What I actually said, “Take the garbage out.”

I was prepared to answer where babies came from.  I was prepared to demonstrate proper use of the sanitary napkin.  I was prepared to delve into the pros and cons of societal shaving trends.  Yet, here I sit, puzzled, trying to argue my decision to wear a bra by explaining to my children why objects that might appear nonexistent in space still succumb to the earth’s gravitational pull.  Not to mention, my own indolent Virginia, whose worthless accessory muscles make pissing my pants when I so much as sigh heavily a common occurrence, the promise that the ninja bastards will soon be awake and ready to play yet again, and the ridiculous task of trying to convince my sweet daughters that it’s all something to look forward to with enthusiasm, like a goddamn party filled with unicorns, rainbows, and butterfly wings for that added bit of reassurance just when you need it the most.

I want a new topic.  And a boob job.  Not necessarily in that order.

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is just around the corner.  Hallmark and buffet style restaurants alike are eagerly awaiting the world’s offspring to hop on the appreciation wagon and ‘Show a Mom You Care.’  I dread it every single year.  Mostly because there is a stark contrast between what I imagine Mother’s Day to be and what it actually is, despite anyone’s/everyone’s best intentions.  It should be a day for moms around the world to completely check out, for the entire day, without being the subject of judgment or ridicule.  For exactly 24 hours, 1 day in May, every single year, I do not exist.  Carry on children, I love you, but I’ll see you tomorrow ready to resume my role with a new attitude and skip in my step.  Of course I love being your mother.  I wouldn’t trade it for the world, nor am I wishing these precious years away, quite the opposite in all honesty. But that is not the point.  The point is, Mother’s Day is not about you.  It’s about me, and all of the other moms out there who have been anxiously awaiting this once a year valid excuse to disengage from their ginormous and never-ending pile of motherhood crap.  No offense kids, but today, I am invisible.  Mommy’s a magician.  Now you see me, now you don’t.

The whole idea sounds quite nice in theory.  A day set aside by society to honor all mothers near and far.  Silent permission to be selfish and treat thyself first.  A free pass to engage in activities that otherwise would not be engaged in without at least some small level of guilt (i.e. an afternoon nap, a martini at noon, an uninterrupted bath, a Netflix marathon that doesn’t involve hitting the pause button every eleven seconds to discuss yet again why it is not okay to throw sharp objects at your little brother, etc., etc.).

I call bullshit on the whole damn thing.  The self inflicted shame in and of itself is enough to make me want to fast forward to the next day.  “Why can’t we watch tv with you Mommy?  It’s Mother’s Day.  We should watch something together as a family.  You could make us some popcorn, oooooh, and milkshakes!”  The guilt is beyond measure and it always comes down to a choice.  Spend the entire day with my children, who for all practical purposes are the sole reason I get to celebrate this monumental day, or send them away thinking they are the only children in the world not spending Mother’s Day with their mother, who clearly must hate them.

Here’s the deal kiddos.  I love you.  A lot.  I love you more than I could ever possibly explain in words and more than you could ever possibly imagine. I love you so much that the thought of not being your mommy and/or not being around to take care of you and protect you in a few short years from this shit ass world for the rest of your life drops me to my knees gasping for air.  Motherhood has done something to me, and it’s not all unicorns and rainbows either, but back to my original point, a list of Mother’s Day demands.

• Do not wake me up early to eat overcooked pancakes with a plastic spoon that are over-drizzled with a secret sauce.
• Do not ask repeated questions about what extra fun things we’re going to do to celebrate the day, as if it should include a trip to the zoo or something.  Mommy hates the zoo, and it’s not your birthday.
• NO GIFTS.  Although I do truly cherish the handmade treasures and wrapped up nicknacks I already knew I had, I want them all tomorrow.  Sorry kids, but I don’t want to share my moment attempting to exercise enthusiasm for the clay ‘thing’ I am certain never to guess its intended purpose for without absolutely crushing the soul of the creator, and/or listening to my offspring endlessly argue over which of their gifts mommy likes best.
• I also don’t want to spend the entire day repeating the following phrase 97 times in a sing-song voice, “All I want for Mother’s Day is for my children to listen and be nice to each other.”  Good one.  It’s probably just best not to ask what I want.
• Above all else, I do not want to go out to eat.  This is not a treat.  This is a fucking nightmare.  No thanks.  Catch me in twenty years when you have table manners and a checkbook.

I realize that one day I will undoubtedly crave my children’s presence on Mother’s Day. At that point in my life I will have all the time in the world to take a nap and/or reminisce about those perfect Mother’s Days of yore when little Buddy gave me a bouquet of dandelions and then sneezed on my waffle.  However, my children will not be living with me then.  I will have time between visits to miss them.  They will have out-grown their desire to forcefully push one another into the corner of the coffee table to claim the first hug from Mommy on Mother’s Day.  Their handmade gifts will be something I might even consider hanging on the wall in plain sight.  I might get actual flowers and not a handful of weeds that I am allergic to.  If I raised them right, they will say “please” and “thank-you” without being reminded and/or threatened.  They will clear the table without whining and/or offer to pick up the check.  And so on and so forth.

If they can’t come to visit me on Mother’s Day, I’ll be okay.  I will take great comfort knowing that they are, God willing, at home with their own offspring, enjoying a well-deserved napless day of overcooked pancakes with a plastic spoon and their very own pile of weeds to nurture and adore.

I just want one day to not feel shameful for wanting to be selfish.  I want one day to not worry about them.  I want one day to not feel completely responsible for everything.  I want one day to drink wine for the fun of it and not because I am scared shitless and over-analyzing what being a mom means.  I want one day, that doesn’t include my own death, to feel at peace with the fact that I simply don’t feel like being a mom for one goddamn day.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Stupid is as stupid does

A B C D E F G,

Gummy bears are after me.

Some are red, some are blue,

Some are peeing in a shoe.

Now they’re running for their life,

Because the green one has a knife.

This is what my soon to be 4 year old son currently sings on a continuous loop to the tune of the Alphabet song.  It’s awesome.  He learned it from his sisters, who learned it on the bus.

Damn the bus.

He knows it word for word, which really pisses me off, mostly because he still cannot recite the actual alphabet with any consistency.  Believe me.  I’ve tried.  He has no use for letters and couldn’t care less.  He goes to preschool too, but it appears only for the socialization and endless supply of animal crackers.  Alas, at the end of the day, he’d rather sing about homicidal gummy bears than learn his ABC’s.  He doesn’t even like Sesame Street.  I can only presume because it provides way too much scholarly information.  Letter of the day, counting to 10, who wants a nap?  Puhlease.

It’s concerning to a somewhat laughable degree.  We recently received a notification from the school district indicating that it’s time for pre-Kindergarten screening.  I never worried about this with my girls, but they had actually learned to trace a straight line and recognize the letter “A” by the time this very important test was administered, so we all slept easy.

That said, I had “conferences” with his preschool teacher a couple weeks ago.  It went something like this, “He is so happy.  He just loves to play.  He is an absolute joy to be around, and I’m sure he can count higher than six?”  It was a question.  Uncomfortable laughter followed.

Of course he can count higher than six.  I think. 

When my oldest child was born, a sales rep came to our door selling a series of classic old school children’s books.  We invited him in, he told us we would have a genius child if we read these books to her, and then like fucking rookie parent idiots, we sold our souls and bought the whole damn set.  Quickly thereafter, we realized that the interchangeable word for kitten (i.e. pussy) that reoccurred throughout every story in each book was too much for our reading aloud comfort level.  Yes, we are immature children and couldn’t get past it.  All the same, I am in control of what I teach and do not teach my children.  This much is certain, if they ever nonchalantly refer to a cat as a pussy, I will have failed as a parent.

Regrettably, the books eventually made their way into storage never to be read from again.  Seriously?  Pussy?  Even back-in-the-day?  C’mon.

In any event, it’s probably my fault that my son would rather not be an active participant in the learning process.  The fact is, I tried much harder with our first two children.  By the time the third one rolled around, the novelty of trying to breed a genius simply wore off.  Eh whatever.  Plus, who has time for it?  I’m at the point where I am banking on the gene pool to pull him through on this one.  Nature versus nurture?  I choose nature.  His dad is smart (like genius, borderline obnoxious, smart).  Some of that is bound to rub off on him.  It’s basic science.  And if not, he’s always got his mom’s glowing personality to fall back on.  Sigh.  I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

Don’t feel sorry for the little ignoramus either.  He’s a master of disguise.  I overheard him counting his highly prized family of Matchbox cars the other day.  He got to 26 before I walked in unannounced, pointed a finger directly at him, and screamed, “Ah-ha!  Gotcha!”

He immediately started sucking his thumb, assumed the fetal position on the floor, and then asked to watch Cailou.

Fuck no.  No Cailou, ever!  Until the end of time.

As if I needed a reason.

The important point here is that I am on to him.  Furthermore, he IS going to preschool screening, whether he wants to act like a fucking idiot or not.

We’ll see how far he gets when he’s 25, still trying to fly under the radar, playing with his cars, and answering “Boobies” to any and all questions directed his way in an effort to pass himself off as a dolt to the general public. 

Should be good entertainment at the very least.  Pass the gummy bears.

      

Applied science

I overheard a conversation between my daughters a while back that was a bit concerning.  One of them was trying to strengthen her argument by providing a series of specific examples.  Among them, “Because she’s too old and grumpy.”

The “she” is me, as if I had to spell that out for you.

I thought nothing of it at first.  Eh, whatever.  As time went on though, it started to bother me more and more.  Is that really what my daughter thinks of me?  A crotchety old hag?  Maybe I should grow my chin hairs out, get a bunch of cats, and call it a day?  That would probably be easier than trying to defend myself at this point, but I’m generally not one to take the easy way out.  Besides, I hate cats.  So there’s that.

Truth be told, I was a bit offended.  When searching for words to describe myself,  grumpy would not top the list.  Indifferent maybe, but not grumpy.  I definitely don’t walk around all day humming Disney tunes while sporting a permagrin, but I don’t think that qualifies me as a crusty grump.  I will even go on the record right now and say that I can be a really fun person when the circumstances are just right.  I am certainly not bubbly.  Quite frankly, that kind of personality is off-putting to me.  I don’t know why.  It makes me uncomfortable for reasons I have yet to explore.  In all honesty, I think I would choose grumpy over bubbly if my hand was forced, but that doesn’t really add to my case, so let’s move on.

My thought process shifted back to the accusatory person in question.  The spade who called me a spade, behind my back no less.  There is no doubt that we could both benefit from smiling more.  Several interventions come to mind.  Maybe we should both take a laughter yoga class?  Maybe I should tell her some jokes or learn to juggle?  Maybe I should serve chocolate chips as a side dish at every meal?  Maybe I should sit down with her and demand specific examples that led to her disappointing and very sour conclusion?  I’m sure that would end well. 

Maybe I should get out of the house?

Twist my arm.

I went to a seminar the other day.  I have to do it every once in a while in order to keep the professional license that I haven’t practiced under in years and probably won’t again anytime soon.  But you never know, so I go through the motions.  Just in case.

I rarely have any expectations regarding the subject matter.  Of course I choose topics that are loosely related to my past professional and personal interests, but at the end of the day, a fish is a fish is a fish, and these things almost always end the same.  A napping marathon with, if you’re lucky, free bagels and the opportunity to pee alone at designated break times.  It’s nice.

I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but as it turned out, this particular course was not only engaging, but (Gasp!) enjoyable, sans bagels!  It surely helped that the good doc splits his time between being an expert in Applied Biopsychology and a wait for it…successful stand-up comedian.

No shit.  http://www.drbrianking.com

Regardless, the topic couldn’t have been more appropriate given my current status quo.  The objective was to discuss evidence that supports the age old idea that laughter may indeed be the best medicine.  I’ll spare you the scientific details.  Partly because I’m lazy and don’t want to cite references, but mostly because I don’t have the delivery skills to make the content seem even a little bit interesting.  That said, the take home message was clear.

Lighten up, laugh more, and pass that shit around the circle, because odds are, you will live longer as a result.

Sounds good to me.  Who doesn’t want to live longer?  Sign me up.

The whole thing got me questioning the reasons I don’t smile more often.  It’s not hard.  It’s actually pretty easy.  I’m doing it right now, as I type this very sentence.  Granted, it’s creepy, and forced, and currently making me a bit uncomfortable, but it’s a smile, and apparently even a forced smile has the potential to positively influence our health and wellbeing.

Case in point, did you know that based on the manner in which you hold a pen in your mouth, you can trick your brain into thinking you’re either sad or happy?  Turns out our ridiculously complex brain has the motivation and energy of a slug.  It thrives on habitual responses.  In other words, it’s fucking lazy.  Obviously I am over-simplifying things here, but I find it fascinating that I can literally be pissed off at the world, position a pen in my mouth in such a way that activates the smiling muscles in my face and VOILA, a portion of my brain thinks I’m jolly based on the position of my face and releases a little happy juice as a result.  It’s measurable.  I don’t know how, but it is.  God bless smart people.

It’s not very often these days that I am afforded a chance to actually apply the knowledge that I learn in these courses to my everyday life of boogers and permission slips and temper tantrums, but as luck would have it, an opportunity presented itself.  I seized the moment with open arms when my beloved spade of a child was in the middle of having her 487th moment of the day.  Because she shares her mother’s affinity for absolute soul sucking stubbornness, I go head to head with her several times a day.  It always ends the same.  She’s pissed, I’m pissed, and we both proceed to slowly drown in our sea of unhappiness and despair, only to do it all over again twenty minutes later.

Regardless, on this particular day, I was fully committed, and it was not easy.  I let her come at me with everything she had.  I stood there, looking at her looking at me, waiting for me to predictably reciprocate in the normal manner of disgust and anger.

I walked away, returned seven seconds later, gave her a pen with specific instructions on how to appropriately hold it in her mouth, and proceeded to watch her actually, albeit reluctantly, do it.

She looked so unbelievably ridiculous standing there all pissed off, red faced, and stoic with that pen in her mouth.  I instantly smiled, which was not my intention, but it felt nice, so I ran with it.  It almost turned to laughter, but I fought the urge.  I didn’t want to be rude.

I felt my misplaced grin gradually begin to take over my entire face (and by extension add at least three minutes to my life) as I offered the following insightful words to my disgruntled and slightly befuddled child.

“Everyone’s a winner honey.  Keep the pen.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ass sac

My kids want a dog. Bad. I keep telling them that we will get one “in a year or two.” I am lying. I’ve been saying this for several years with the hope that they will grow out of it. They keep reminding me of my promise and I continue to play the timing card regardless of the timing. “Now is not the right time to get a dog kids.” They hate me for it. I can see it in their eyes as they walk away with exaggerated sighs and shoulders draped forward as if I just cancelled their birthdays. Meanwhile, here I sit in the hole I have dug for myself, buried in a heap of lies, gasping for air, and wishing I had just been an asshole in the first place and declared in no uncertain terms, “No dog. EVER!”  

It’s a definite struggle for me as a parent. I know that having a dog can be truly rewarding for a child. I had one as a kid and I absolutely loved the entire experience…until it died.  And then we got another one and another one and another one. They all died. The first one of kennel cough (I can still hear the ceaseless wet hacking from behind the couch.). The second one mysteriously disappeared without explanation after several mishaps with the toilet paper roll. My parents, “He went to a better place.” Did he though? The third one passed on of old age and/or from repeatedly pissing on our Christmas presents. The fourth one died tragically, the direct result of an unfortunate and untimely encounter with a very large truck. The phone call came in from my Grandma, who really had a special way with words.

“Don’t worry Jill, she got hit right in the head. She didn’t feel a thing. It was smashed.”

“Wow, thanks Grandma. What a huge relief.”

The fact is, I really don’t want to expose my children to the whole death and dying of a pet thing. It sucks, and I honestly don’t want to go through it again myself. Aside from that, my likes and dislikes have changed dramatically since my youth. For instance, my affinity for animals in the house is gone. I like things clean, and furthermore lay awake at night if they are not. On a related note, you know that thing a dog does on an occasional basis where it toboggans its rump across the floor like its performing in some sort of a circus act? I used to think it was funny. Then I grew up and read a book.

Here’s some food for thought. According to vetmedicine.about.com, “Dogs scoot because their anal sacs are bothersome (Whose aren’t?).” What are anal sacs you ask? “They collect the oily secretion of the glandular tissue that lines the anal glands (Of course they do.).  Normally (i.e. not always) a bowel movement is sufficient enough to express the sacs. If your pet seems predisposed to having anal sac problems (i.e. rump scooting), speak to your veterinarian about learning how to empty the anal sacs at home to prevent further problems (Come again? And more importantly, absolutely not.)  

This much is certain. I am not emptying anyone’s anal sac, let alone my own, ever, nor am I going to put myself in a situation where I have to choose, “Squeeze the anal juice from my dog’s ass glands, or spend a ridiculous amount of money for someone else to do it and then judge me because I did not.” No thanks Jack. Ass gland squeezing is a hard pass for me. I’m out.

Let’s get beyond Ass Juice City for a moment though and casually step into the Land of Obviousness. I’m not an idiot. I know who will be the primary caregiver/walker/buyer of food/taker to the vet/doo doo picker upper on a daily basis despite dramatic claims to the contrary.

“We’ll take care of it Mom, we promise! We’ll walk it and feed it and bathe it and pick up the poop and you won’t have to do anything!”

“How about we start with the room you promised to pick up four months ago or the teeth you promised you quote/unquote just brushed? Or how about just ‘listening’ in general? Let’s have another go at that first?”

Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs. They are my favorite animal. I love them like a grandmother loves her grandchildren. Pet them, give them snacks, throw them a ball every once in a while, shower them with hugs, and then hand them off to their parents when they shit their pants because that shit ain’t yo problem! I don’t want something else to take care of and be responsible for. My cup runneth over when it comes to taking care of other people’s shit. That said, how can I deprive them of this experience? They’re only young once. Am I really okay with being the only thing standing in the way of my children achieving their hopes and dreams?

The answer is clear and just like the American Girl doll I swore I would never buy a few years ago, I know how this is all going to go down.

I bought two, along with an assortment of ridiculously over-priced accessories, musical instruments included.

Let the ass sac squeezing begin.

The Costco Experience

I have a love/hate relationship with Costco. I love it because they carry a really good block of cheese that is a staple at my house for virtually every meal. I hate it for every single other reason in the book.

I hate it because it turns me into something I am generally not. A hateful angry person who wants to violently throat punch someone/everyone.

I hate that the parking lot is always full. Wednesday mornings at 10:00 am, Fridays at noon, Sunday afternoons at 3:00 pm, fucking full. How is that even possible? It’s not, but yet somehow it is.

I hate that when I do finally find a parking spot, my dumb goddamn bus of a van doesn’t fit in that spot, but guess whose Smart Car does? Go to hell jerkwad and take your stupid matchbox car with you! By the way, you’re an embarassment to the entire human race.

I hate that the carts are so big and heavy that it takes a herculean act of God to push them around even when they’re empty, which of course mine is not and now my tennis elbow is going to flare up for at least two weeks and I’ve never played tennis in my life.

I hate that they have the freshest and most reasonably priced fruit within a 50 mile radius, thereby making me a complete idiot if I choose not to buy my produce there.

I hate the samples. I am always hungry. I try them all. I bought a bag of quinoa that supposedly was grown at the end of an actual rainbow because in the store it tasted like a tiny slice of heaven. It tasted like literal shit at home, and now I am stuck with a 10 gallon bag of it that fits in nary a kitchen cupboard and as a result has found its home from now until the end of time as a ginormous eye sore on my kitchen floor that my kids attempt to kick around from time to time like a makeshift non-rollable soccer ball. Perfect.

I hate that my husband loves it. He is not a shopper. He hates spending money. Some might call him a “penny pincher” (a.k.a. Mr. Tight Ass). Bring him to Costco and he is like a kid in a candy store. Our checkbook is open and the possibilities are endless. He walks up and down every single aisle meticulously looking for our next smart buy. “Seriously honey, those are NOT designer jeans, trust me!” He buys them anyway and a couple of non-wrinkle business shirts made out of bendable cardboard to boot.

I hate that my husband thinks I should buy everything there. I could go to the mall and spend a hundred bucks on clothing and/or home goods and he would question every purchase I made with a slight judgmental head tilt and a “do we really need that” glare into my soul. I could spend $1,000.00 on the same exact pile of shit at Costco only in bulk form and he would give me a high five for being such a wise shopper.

I hate that every time I go there I spend a minimum of $300.00, and that’s not including the booze.

I hate the old people that come just for the free samples. “Seriously, there is nothing in your cart! You are not fooling anyone! Get the fuck out of my way!” I know what you’re thinking and you could not be more wrong. I’m actually a huge fan of the elderly. I sometimes wish I was one just for the simple fact that I would be that much closer to never having to shop at Costco ever again.

I hate that even in the middle of summertime I have to bring a thick coat and mittens just to be able to enter their ridiculously large walk-in cooler. Newflash! No one besides maybe a hungry eskimo enjoys ambling into a elephantine sized refrigerator for a bit of a stroll and I need butter, 97 gallons of fucking milk, and I think my heart is actually slowing to a complete stop right at this very moment as a direct result of the sub-zero temperature in this room that can only be described as the dumbest idea ever.

I hate the judgmental look that I get from the liquor store cashier after she excitedly asks me if I’m having a party every time I buy 6 bottles of wine and a case of beer. “Seriously? Do we have to go through this every single time? How can you not recognize me? I’m in here every week. There is no party and now I feel bad about myself, so maybe go fuck yourself.”

I hate that it makes sense to shop there and because I’m not a complete moron I have to keep doing it.

I hate that they don’t bag your shit.

I hate that it takes me 25 minutes to unload every item single handedly from the cart into my van because they don’t bag your shit.

I hate that the people that work there are generally very nice people thereby making me feel like a total asshole for hating them, and their smiles, and their parking lot, and their carts made for real life giants.

I hate that we spent $450.00 dollars there today and then went to redeem our ice cream purchases for the kids at the food counter and the food service lady told my husband that we didn’t pay for 1 smoothie, 1 frozen yogurt, and 1 sundae, but rather ordered 1 smoothie, 2 frozen yogurts, and zero sundaes…for a difference of thirty fucking cents!

I am not the type of person that typically chooses to create a scene in public. I was raised to avoid conflict at any and all costs. My husband on the other hand would pay you to argue with him on most days, yet for some reason on this particular day chose to just stand there frantically digging in his pants pockets for loose change to make up the difference.

“Really honey? You’re not gonna argue this one? We just spent $450.00 in this god forsaken store and I’m pretty sure we’re leaving with a kid that is not ours and the jeans you bought have pleats and are stonewashed and I’m fairly certain are going to lead to marriage counseling and/or divorce if you choose to actually wear them in public. More importantly, is it really out of the realm of possibility or reason to suggest that maybe she just throw a couple of complementary strawberries on the frozen yogurt cup and call it a day?! Here’s an idea…maybe say something to them YOU GINORMOUS COWARD OF A HUMAN BEING!!! I’ll be over here with your balls cowering in a corner and swallowing my feelings like a good little girl.”

In a perfect world, I would’ve ripped the hairnet off the lady behind the counter and punched her in the face while angrily screaming at the top of my lungs, “Give us the goddamn strawberries bitch! It’s not going to take much for me to stop shopping here.”

(Thought cloud.)

On second thought, “Keep the strawberries and thank you kind lady. If anyone can pull off a hairnet, it’s you.”