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Join me in my head, why don’t ya’

25 Jan

It’s Friday, and we’re headed up to a mountainous town for the weekend which means winding roads and drowsy kiddos. Time for me to think. Because I’m super deep and inspiring I thought I’d just let that ol’ stream of consciousness flow and, you know, change your life with all of my insight. Let’s hope I live up to the pressure I’ve just created for myself…and now, “Things I Thought About On The Way Up The Mountain: Uncensored”.

Fawnskin. As in the town. Say it fast 3 times and you’ll know why I smirk every time we make this drive. Apparently I have the brain of a 12 year old boy.

Squatting in turnouts. Time for a math lesson, kids! Let’s count all the places mommy has tinkled on the side of the road because she thought cold weather “necessitated” a cup of hot coffee and then “OMG, why do I always forget coffee goes right through me…no, we aren’t almost there, so pull over, NOW. No, I can’t hold it, and yes, I went before we left. Do you really want the kids to see me piss myself…no I’m guessing you don’t, so  PULL THE F OVER!”. This ends with me making yellow snow. Fun for the whole family, and all of the families driving by mommy with her pants down.

Video games. I ❤ Sega. Or whoever the hell it is that makes the DS. It’s educational and has a full day’s dose of Omega 3’s, right? Win win. Continue reading

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My husband’s bright idea

28 Mar

My husband just came out of the kitchen and announced his great idea for my next blog. I’m so fired up I can’t even wait until tomorrow – yep people, two posts in one day, watch out. Brace yourself now, it’s riveting: “My Wife Has Too Much Faith in the Dishwasher”.

Can I get a WTF here, please? It’s a dishwasher, an appliance whose sole purpose is to clean the friggin’ dirty dishes, yo! There is no middle ground here, no need for scrubbing the sink full of dishes in preparation for the godforsaken wash cycle. It either works or it doesn’t. And if it doesn’t then it’s time for mama to go shopping.

But according to my husband, the dishwasher’s job is to sanitize. He has forgiven its weakness and lovingly re-conceptualized the very definition of the dishwasher to allow for it’s inefficiency. Sounds like marriage. Not mine, of course. Or parenting. But not mine, obviously.

Normally I have no basis for complaining because I am not the designated dishwasher in the house, I’m the cook. I cook, someone else cleans. I feed you, you keep the house from looking like an episode of Hoarders. Fair deal.

Normally I’d be laughing, not ranting. But I have a fever. I’m dazed and confused.

Which is also why I feel the need to apologize to anyone else in the movie theater last night who heard my husband blurt out the word “nerdgasm” halfway through the Avengers preview. Yes, he was serious. Seriously as excited as any nerd has ever been. And although this is unrelated to the rest of my post, it seems like the appropriate arena to mention it. I say it with love.

And with thanks that I’m not the one doing the dishes.

To 10: Reasons spam is funny

29 Nov

Okay, so for some reason the spam on this site is OUTTA control lately. Seems my mom blog is a fave amongst hackers and thieves. You can thank the magical WordPress filters for keeping your eyes from bleeding like mine are after reading all SEVENTY-FOUR of the spam comments I’ve gotten in the last eleven days. Oy.

Good news is, they’re freaking hilarious. And I figured keeping all this funny to myself was just plain selfish. I’ve decided that all spammers can be classified into three definitive categories: 1) those who think I am a genius amongst geniuses (why thank-you), 2) those who play World of Warcraft, and 3) those that are totally perverted but funnier than shit. I mixed ’em all up for ya down below. Let’s play ‘can you categorize the spammer’, shall we?

It sort of feels that you are doing a unique trick. Furthermore, the contents are masterwork. You have performed an excellent activity on this matter! –Carpet Cleaner Bedworth

Dear Carpet Cleaner, you are not the first to notice my “unique tricks” and “masterwork”. My husband and the Headmistress of Hogwarts concur.

Why do I bother calling up people when I can just read this! –Elric

My thoughts exactly, Eric. Being a shut in is the noble path.

You Sir/Madam are the enemy of confusion everywhere! –Zyah

I’d just like to direct my husband’s attention here. Zyah is wise and all-knowing!

Articles like this really grease the shafts of knowledge. –McCayde

McCayde, you are very clever but I have a feeling it’s past your bedtime.

The genius store called, they’re running out of you. –Chuckles

Bah! Brilliant, Chuckles, just brilliant!

This info is the cat’s pajamas! –Xannon

The bee’s knees, baby!

This site is like a classroom, except I don’t hate it. Lol. –Emmy

Just glad I’m not your mother.

Absolutely first rate and copper-bottomed, gentlemen! –Geri

I lived in England far too long for this to be funny.

Thank God! Someone with brains speaks! –Kayleen

OMG, that’s what I think every time I hear the voices in my head!

This free sharing of information seems too good to be true. Like communism. –Prue

Next project http://www.FreeTheCommunist.com?

Boom shakalaka boom boom, problem solved. –Maralynn

Glad to be of service, Maralynn. And if you don’t mind I think I’ll have to pilfer that quote.

~ And with that, Boom Shakalaka Boom Boom, people. ~

Traffic school. Waaaaaah.

14 Mar

Ever the overachiever, I wrapped up February with two speeding tickets in two weeks, the due dates of which both landed on my sons’ respective birthdays. This leads me to the obvious conclusion that within my license and registration must be hidden some secret DaVinci code, which under the illumination of an officer’s penlight might read, “Her life doesn’t suck enough. Go ahead and ruin her kids’ birthdays too.”

Despite the sniveling and 24 hours of mild depression that followed each infraction, I began my most recent rendezvous with online traffic school in an unreasonably optimistic mood, opening the lid of my laptop like a perky college freshman. I read every word and aced every chapter test, sure that this reasonable little refresher would make me the conscientious driver those police officers hoped I one day could be. I, for one, can never be reminded enough that when driving in rural areas one must be on the look out for slow moving farm equipment such as tractors and combines. Right-o. Duly noted for the next time I bear east toward Nebraska for an afternoon romp.

But here I am – seven days later. A harder edged, more leathery version of my former bright eyed self. Because here’s what they don’t tell you about traffic school. It’s like a black hole filled with all the things you hate most about the world. Which, for me, include but are not limited to: compliance, lack of substance, dryness, transparency, bitterness, resentment, and complete and utter boredom.

All topped off by the incessant tick-tick-ticking of that trifling little police clock whose numbers have the cursed job of reminding you exactly how much time you MUST spend on each…and…every…page…before you click to the next. How much time it takes the ‘average’ person to read through the traffic babble. One page in I began to wonder, where do they get their estimates, these people? From second graders? Foreign exchange classrooms? Chimps? As if I haven’t done this once or twice before? Reading, that is.

Consider this, little clock, perhaps I’m a fast reader. Perhaps I was an English major and learned to skim. Perhaps you don’t know me well enough to know that the only thing I despise more than being told what to do is being told how slowly to do it.

So what does this say about me? More than you might think. See I was the kid who went to every class, who turned in every homework assignment, who actually did summer reading. Yes, I despised the man, but I loved the work. And as much as I tried this last week to bring that spirit back to the traffic school table, this time I’ve got to say my inner eighth grade rebel prevailed.

I’m not ashamed to admit that as soon as I realized this intended three hour course would take more like nine, I decided to stop reading. I embraced the Food Network, e-mailing, and bathroom breaks, and just waited for the clock to run out at the bottom of each page before clicking through to the next. And you know what? I still aced every common sense answer and sneaky trick question. Okay, there are none of those. That at least would have made it interesting.

All in all I missed 2 out of 50 on the final exam, and have decided to take my friend’s advice and hire someone to do it for me next time. No matter how much they charge, I assure you, it won’t be enough to restore their sanity afterward.

And for me, the moral of the story? I’ll have to dig deep and get back to you about that one. I’m still too pissed at the man to think straight.

P.S. And because I know this questions is coming, yes, I did try the whole self induced nosebleed thing at the time of ticketing. Great in concept, but I think you may also find, if you try as hard as I did, that it’s easier said than done. And an avalanche of snot and tears doesn’t quite have the same impact. I tried that one too.

Backfire of the week

10 Feb

So you know how, as a parent, the best of intentions don’t really mean a whole lot? And how just the slightest flick of a butterfly wing can turn a smiling two year old into a bipolar mess? If you don’t then I envy you. And your children should be cloned.

This morning Chinese Acrobats visited my sons’ school. I could launch into a whole tangent about that alone but I’ll stop myself and keep focus. Because wow…really, WOW. Anyway, as I am a “present and conscious mother” (see New Year’s Resolutions), I put off work for a couple of hours to attend the performance with my children.

Mistake number one. Since, as my husband pointed out, who needs to add any more excitement to a day already filled with spinning plates and kung fu? I’d planned on sitting with my kids on the auditorium floor, but decided last minute to take the boys into the bleachers so the three of us could sit together.

Mistake number two. Because not halfway into the show, little brother started kicking his feet against the aluminum stairs, which, truth be told, I didn’t even notice. I’m a mother of two small boys, who therefore wears powerful imaginary earmuffs at all times to keep from going completely nuts.

The dear sweet grandma next to me, however, must have forgotten hers this morning. She politely asked my son to stop, and he ignored her. I asked him to stop, and he whined. I asked him again and he headbutted my chest (Whaaaaaaaat??? Who DOES that?!). I asked him to stop a third time, and told him we’d have to leave if he did it again. The kid responded with another headbutt. So I stood *pretty* calmly, picked him up, and attempted to tromp noiselessly down the bleacher stairs in my riding boots.

Which I see now, after the fact, was surely mistake number three, since as soon as big brother realized that I was aiming to make an exit, he grabbed the hem of my (probably too short for a mom) dress, wanting to come with us. I, however, wanted to run in the other direction from the two crying children in a puddle at my feet creating a major distraction from the tiny Chinese contortionist scooting her way across the stage in boat pose with teacups on her feet. A dangerous scenario, to say the least.

Here is when the real test of character came in…and I failed. As soon as we stepped foot into the hallway I set little bro on the floor and got on the next plane to Bali. I’m writing this from a Virgin Airways Boeing right now.

OK, no, I’m actually at work wishing I were at Coffee Bean. And what I did was set little brother down on the linoleum and try to talk some sense into him. It took about 10 minutes, but by the end, big bro was happily back with his class on the gym mats, and little bro and I had miraculously re-entered the auditorium to join him. Victory, yes?

No. No, no no no no. Because after the show was over and little bro had joined his teacher in line, big bro decided it was his turn to go manic. I crouched down and in the most loving of ways told him I had majorly important adult shit to do, so tough nuggets kid, but you’re on your own. We negotiated an agreement that I’d walk him to his classroom but halfway there I realized he was going to balk. I did what any mother would do, and tried to hand him over to the assistant right then and there and flee the scene. She’d already had one kid crying for his mom in her arms, so I figured what was one more?

Yeah, that would be mistake number four…the final nail in the coffin. As soon as big brother wised up to what was about to happen he reared back in terror, screaming at the top of his lungs. I stood there, frozen in disbelief at my child’s vocal capacity as it echoed through the auditorium, until his teacher pointed out with terror in her eyes that the kid had given himself a nosebleed.

By the time I finally jumped into action he had blood in his mouth, on his hands, and dripping onto the floor, like it was coming straight from his brain. Buckets. Gallons, even. I am happy to report that I didn’t pass out or get even slightly woozy. Just ushered him to the nearest sink, applied pressure, and carried him to his classroom. After a graham cracker and appointment as line leader, big brother headed out to the playground. Almost with a smile on his face.

And I sprinted to the car, successfully holding back the urge to burst into tears or break into dance. Because that’s the thing of it. So often I find myself asking – victory or defeat? The morning sucked, but we all came out of it OK, and even got to see some cool Chinese umbrella tricks in the process. And if there’s a lesson to be gleaned from the experience then, as moms, we tend to shake it off and smile for the sake of the greater good.

Today my lessons were twofold: 1) Remember that even though the outcome was so not as planned, my intentions were still alright, and that’s got to at least count for something. And 2) Next time I get pulled over I’m totally crying myself into a nosebleed. I’ve got a feeling that one will work every time.

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